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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850937">transient ; perpetual</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutiowasababe/pseuds/mercutiowasababe'>mercutiowasababe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fake Marriage, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Space Politics, there will be copious, warlord au, witchers deserve love and respect</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:02:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>134,715</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23850937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutiowasababe/pseuds/mercutiowasababe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The White Wolf, Warlord of the Southern Lands, Conquerer of Many is getting married to the youngest daughter of the king of Redania. Jaskier knows this because she's sent him a letter begging him to find out how to rescue her from her fate. Jaskier may never get another chance in his life to invade The White Wolf's Keep, a feat no other human has been able to do and live to tell the tale. He just didn't plan on that bloody love potion. </p><p>it's an indulgent fake marriage AU guys</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. meet cute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I just want to shout out inexplicifics for their amazing Warlord AU. I've read the first work in the series about five times, and I'm a massive slut for every new update they produce. So, please, go check their work out because my work would not exist without theirs. </p><p>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this is a long haul fic guys. When I say slow burn I mean it ;)   Also I haven't read the books or played the games but I did spend a lot of time mining the Wiki for information because it was a lot of fun so this fic is going to contain some pretty big spoilers that are being set up(from what I can tell) for the next season on Netflix. jsyk </p><p>Also Kaer Morhen, for the purposes of this fic, is in a different location. It's been switched with Stygga, which is the Cat Keep, and it's located in the South. Also also Geralt's essentially taken on the role of the Nilfgaardian Usurper. Those are just basic plot points that can't really be revealed in the fic naturally and will help ease some confusion when all that starts coming into play.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Geralt watches Dalimira swirl around the dance floor, carefully guided by the bold hands of the bard. It was a sight to see, the first time she has smiled all night. Was it wise to allow such a blatant display? If this goes on much longer he’ll start hearing rumors about The White Wolf, Warlord of the Southern Lands, Conquerer of Many, The Cuckholded.</p><p class="p1">The thought of that alone is enough to bring a small smile to Geralt’s lips, and he takes a swig to hide it. If he must steal away a pretty princess from her extravagant courts and all the vain comforts she’s grown up surrounded by then he can -at the very least- allow her one last night with her lover. Who is he to lay claim over her, he’s only just learned her name.</p><p class="p1">“Fucking hell, Hedwig. Could she make a bigger fool of herself? This display is downright obscene.” Geralt tries not to look as annoyed by King Visimir II as he is, it’s an endless battle.</p><p class="p1">“If it were truly as obscene as you think then certainly her <em>husband</em> would be willing to put an end to it.” Queen Hedwig certainly hasn’t made any efforts to hide her disdain for him, but her comment is enough to silence her husband. Geralt does have to admit his guilt when he meets her eye, she’s only as furious as Geralt himself would be at the idea of giving his own child away for a political marriage to someone who all of Redania seems to view as little more than an animal. She may be furious, but it is a righteous fury. One that he can respect.</p><p class="p1">The Queen’s stare can freeze a lesser man’s blood. Geralt turns his eye back to the bard, and his hand wrapped around his betrothed’s waist. His fingers are splayed, just barely touching the dip of her lower back, the dimples at the top of her ass. Geralt has found himself more interested in the bard’s actions than anything else tonight. The way he weaves throughout the nobility, laughing and touching and speaking with them as if he’s one of them, as if there is no class barrier between them. It’s certainly entertaining.</p><p class="p1">Geralt certainly isn’t capable of accomplishing what the bard has, despite the fact that he has much more right to the attempt of it.</p><p class="p1">Geralt finishes his mug and turns to make eye contact with the servant standing silently at the end of the table in a silent plea for another. His head is only just beginning to fog, and the more he drinks the easier it gets to dial down all the chatter around him to a dull static.</p><p class="p1">This is an utter waste of time. He is no longer interested in war, he’s fought more than he’s ever planned to and there is little left that can egg him into another, but the Northern Kingdoms seem endlessly nervous of an attempt to conquer the entire Continent. Geralt has tried, time and time again, to assuage their fears but it has come down to this. A marriage of politics. Hopefully after he can be exempt from any more of these frivolities from now on.</p><p class="p1">“My, my, aren’t you broody tonight.” Triss smirks at him as he’s handed a fresh mug of ale.</p><p class="p1">“How much longer until I can respectfully retreat to my rooms?” Geralt has been here for three hours now, and in that time he has managed to bite back more than enough crude comments to fill his mouth with his own blood. Any longer and he’ll be likely to flip the table and give these nobles a reason to believe all the idiotic comments they whisper in one another’s ears without realizing he can hear each and every one of them. </p><p class="p1">“Go lean against a pillar in the corner somewhere and pretend like you’re going to dance to the next song. The longer you sit here looking like you want to punch The Good and Honorable King Visimir II the more nervous you’ll make the poor fools of his court.” Geralt gives her an exasperated look, long suffering and silently asking if she really thinks he’s at all willing to dance. She doesn’t hide her smile from him. She has always found him more amusing than anything else and he likes how easy her smiles come to her. “I’ll come and fetch you when you can <em>respectfully</em> sneak away.” She touches his knee, squeezing it gently, and returns to her wine and her conversation.</p><p class="p1">He does as he is told, if only to get away from the King and Queen. The more he hears the inane comments slipping through their teeth the harder it gets to bit his tongue. He can only be asked to swallow so much in one night.</p><p class="p1">The dance floor does actually bring him the solace he was unable to settle into at the high table, despite the fact that it’s much more crowded here. Although it should have been obvious how sitting next to the King at an elevated table would make him feel even more scrutinized. At least here he can pretend like he’s capable of slipping into the shadows, unnoticed.</p><p class="p1">He’s allowed three songs of peace before the very bard he’s been watching all night leans against the wall next to him. The bard is turned to face him, arms crossed, lute wrapped around to rest against his back, and he juts out his hips as if in an invitation for Geralt to slip his hand around the bone and press him silently into the wall. Geralt glances at him, hiding his face behind his mug, trying not to reveal how curious this turn of events has him.</p><p class="p1">The bard licks his bottom lip, bites it. His cheeks are bright red, his eyes are heavily lidded. His doublet has been unbuttoned, the ties of his chemise undone, revealing a deep swath of his chest. The flush on his cheeks has traveled down to his chest, hidden under the hair he’s put on display. He looks as if he’s just come back from ravaging some poor(lucky?) woman. Possibly his own wife-to-be. Does this bard have a death wish?</p><p class="p1">“I love how you just.” He tilts his head, displaying his neck. “Brood.” Geralt rolls his eyes, looks away from him, tries to ignore him. Whatever this is, he’s not interested in being dragged into it. Dalimira is more than allowed to dally with whomever she wishes. There’s no need to pretend that he’s allowed to join to assuage his ego. Though it is a very tempting invitation.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not interested.” Geralt distracts himself by draining the mug. His body has finally settled into the warmth and heaviness that he’s been chasing after all evening.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? You’ve certainly done a poor job of making that clear.” His voice is low, not bothering to raise it above the noise to be heard like most humans would do. So he seems to be aware that Geralt, and possibly other witchers, wouldn’t struggle to hear him. Geralt still ignores him as if he couldn’t hear him. “You’ve been watching me all night.”</p><p class="p1">Perhaps this wasn’t as much of an invitation as it was a taunt. Geralt does return his attention to the bard now, annoyed.</p><p class="p1">“What’s your name?” The bard looks proud of himself, as if he’s accomplished his goal somehow.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier.” Geralt huffs, and levels Jaskier with a patronizing look.</p><p class="p1">“No, <em>Jaskier</em>. Your full name.” That does the trick. The bard straightens his posture, suddenly looking petulant. Like a child caught before he was able to accomplish his goal, despite knowing that he is up to something he shouldn’t be.</p><p class="p1">“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” Geralt smirks at that, reaching out to politely stop the servant walking around with a tray of fresh ales. He swaps them out, thanks him, and doesn’t return his gaze to Jaskier. He knew a simple bard would never have been allowed to mingle with this crowd the way Jaskier does unless he’s cut from the same cloth.</p><p class="p1">He’s surprised when Jaskier asks him for his name a long moment later. He’d thought that the bard would have scurried away by now. He hadn’t felt that he was still being watched.</p><p class="p1">“Do the people in this court not know my name? Seems like an oversight if I’m to marry their princess tomorrow.” Jaskier chuckles at that, almost smug.</p><p class="p1">“Everyone here seems too afraid to call you anything other then The White Wolf.” The tone he says that like it’s something that should be mocked, it’s enough to win Geralt’s attention once more. Jaskier doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away when he makes direct eye contact. He doesn’t smell of anything more than wine-warm sweat, citrus, and honey. No fear. His heart doesn’t beat rapidly. He’s moved his body so that he’s still leaned against the wall but his chest is bare, one hand at his side, the other perched on his hip. He’s open, waiting, patient, making his body vulnerable, inviting. He faces him the way a friend would face him, or the way a man who wanted to weasel his way into his bed would.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” That makes Jaskier twist his mouth into a smile, surprised, emboldened.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt?” He looks almost impressed. He’s very confusing. “Such a normal name for one of the most feared men in all the Continent.” Geralt isn’t sure what this is anymore. Isn’t sure what Jaskier’s intentions are. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Jaskier was trying to get to know him. No one else in all of his meetings with any of the Northern Kingdoms has ever attempted this.</p><p class="p1">“Well, that’s probably why they all insist on calling me White Wolf.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>The</em> White Wolf. The ‘<em>the</em>’ really makes it.” Jaskier make a strange hand gesture, just vaguely swirling his palm, shaking it, ask if holding something and showing it off. “You know. Ter-ri-fy-ing.” Geralt smiles at that, just small, but it’s more than enough to make Jaskier beam.</p><p class="p1">“Well, I’m gonna hurry off before I do something to make you forget how much you like me.” Jaskier makes a show of looking at him, slowly dragging his eyes down his neck, across his chest, biting his lip, glancing back up to meet his gaze. “It was lovely to meet you, Geralt.” With that Jaskier pushes off the wall, and disappears down a hall he hadn’t seen. A servant’s hall, mostly hidden by the grand tapestries.</p><p class="p1">Geralt does like him. He hadn’t expected to, and he’d tried not to, and he would never admit to it, but Jaskier was good. He knew which buttons to press, what jokes to make, and when to leave. He was the most interesting person here, and Geralt sighs, settling back into his beer. No one else was going to be bold enough to try and chat with <em>The</em> White Wolf.</p><p class="p1">Geralt glances up to see if Triss is still there, and she is, which is frustrating, because he doesn’t want to have to be here much longer. The Queen, though, is gone, and Geralt scans the floor, searching for her. Fuck, if she comes over in search of a dance he’s running.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">Jaskier hurries down the servant’s hall, not running, but not walking. He can see Dalimira ahead of him, giggling, skirts in hand, her little shoes clicking loudly as he catches up to her, grabs her hand, and continues on. The guard ahead of them makes a left and they follow, emerging from the halls to a long stone staircase outside. They take it quickly, headed for the horse and cart waiting for them at the base.</p><p class="p1">The guard looks around, paused before the cart, and turns back to them, silently nodding. Dalimira laughs, excited, and releases his hand to turn around, allowing Jaskier to begin unlacing her dress. She takes the chemise the guard hands her from the cart, and he begins to undress as well, dropping the loud metal to the ground, uncaring.</p><p class="p1">“Dimmy, are you absolutely certain?” Jaskier wouldn’t have asked her if he thought she might actually back out of this decision. He had far too much riding on this happening. She lets out a loud sigh, sounding more free and happy than she ever has since he’s met her.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Jask. I’m so certain. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” The second Jaskier manages to loosen her dress enough for her to slip out of it, letting it puddle at her ankles, she turns to him, leans against his chest, wraps her arms around his neck. The chemise she’s holding is course, cotton, and it tickles his neck. Her bare chest presses against him, and he wonders for a moment if there’s time to have her a second time tonight. It’s been a long time since Jaskier has slipped into her bed, and it very well may be the last time he will again. She presses a kiss to his mouth, long and slow. She smells incredible, like cinnamon.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you so much, Jaskier.” She smiles, looking directly into his eyes. This is the most beautiful she’s ever looked. Young, free, happy. Jaskier remembers that feeling, running away from home for the first time, lute on his back and a bag around his shoulder full of food. He smiles, relaxing into her touch, squeezing his hands around her hips.</p><p class="p1">“You’ll write to me, tell me all about your adventures.” She nods, pulling away to slip the chemise over her head. She’s wearing trousers already, had them on under her dress -which couldn’t have been comfortable-, but it certainly made things easier.</p><p class="p1">The guard, who looks like nothing more than a normal peasant now, hops up onto the cart and leans over to hand her a pair of boots.</p><p class="p1">“Of course I’ll write. You’ll give my mother that letter?” Jaskier touches his hand to his breast pocket, hidden on the inside of his doublet, where he’s tucked her letter away.</p><p class="p1">“Of course, darling.” She jumps up onto the cart, slips the vest left for her over her shoulders, and offers him her hand.</p><p class="p1">“Goodbye, Jaskier. You have been the love of my life.” She says it like it’s true, and bites her lip when Jaskier takes her hand and brushes his lips over her knuckles. He grasps the ring on her pinky, and slides it off, cradling it in his hand.</p><p class="p1">“Dimmy, you’re truly the diamond of Redania.” She whoops as the guard slaps the reigns, urging the horses along, and raises her arms to the sky.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier Alfred Pankratz you are the four poster bed to which I will <em>always</em> crawl!” He’s never heard her yell so loudly, no matter how drunk he’s managed to get her. Freedom looks amazing on her. Jaskier feels a sharp twinge of regret. She’s going to become an amazing woman, and he’s going to miss out on it. He almost wants to follow her, be by her side, watch her develop, watch her sprout and grow and flourish.</p><p class="p1">But he doesn’t. It’s so easy, just as easy, even easier actually, to pick up her dress from the floor and turn back up those steps, two at a time. He’s spent far too much time putting this little scheme together to suddenly run away. He’s going to change the world.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">It takes another four songs before he catches sight of her, but she has her daughter’s arm in her’s, and is walking right to him. She still looks cold and unforgiving, and the grip on Dalimira’s arm is tight, possessive.</p><p class="p1">“Wolf, you need to dance with your betrothed. There aren’t many men who would allow their courts to wonder if he has found his wife <em>lacking</em>.” Geralt can admit that he’s been rather neglectful of what is expected of him, but Dalimira rolls her eyes at the comment, saying nothing, keeping her head tilted down.</p><p class="p1">She smells exactly like Jaskier. So that explains her absence from the floor, and confirms Jaskier’s strange behavior as a taunt.</p><p class="p1">“No, Your Highness, I would loathe it if the courts found your daughter lacking.” Geralt drains his mug and offers it to the Queen, who takes is with a quiet rage in her eyes. Geralt takes Dalimira’s hands in his and gently pulls her into the crowd. He isn’t skilled at this, though Triss did manage to show him something simple, slow, with none of the usual flourishes, and Dalimira falls into step easily.</p><p class="p1">“Dalimira, I need you to know.” She doesn’t smell like the fear she’d reeked of earlier, during the dinner. She touches him easily, comfortably. Could Jaskier have been such a through lover that he’d fucked her free of her fear? What an amusing thought.</p><p class="p1">Dalimira watches him boldly, patiently, making direct eye contact. It is confusing. This court seems full of strange humans.</p><p class="p1">“You don’t have anything to fear from me. This is just politics. Once the ceremonies are over you’re free to do whatever you like. I won’t treat you like property.” She looks taken aback, tilting her head to the side.</p><p class="p1">“You’re not a typical warlord, are you?” Her mouth quirks up, a small smirk. She hadn’t been so comfortable and confident earlier. Were there two of her?</p><p class="p1">“I’ll take that as a compliment, princess.” They dance around slowly, and the scent of Jaskier never lessens. The smell of her fear had been so strong before that he hadn’t managed to catch what her natural scent is. Perhaps they simply shared a scent. That tended to happen with couples who spent a lot of time together, their scents mix. Perhaps once they return to the Keep her scent will return to her natural one. He’s not looking forward to that, he quite likes the way Jaskier smells. It is sweet, with a subtle floral air to it, beneath the musk.</p><p class="p1">“What are you thinking of, Wolf?” She looks at him with a glint in her eye, like she’s just made a joke. Geralt’s eyebrows furrow together, just a little.</p><p class="p1">“You seem much more comfortable in my arms now.” She smiles at that, her eyebrows jumping up. It would be nice if she decided to let him in on the joke soon. She’s having far more fun than he is, and he resents her for it some. He’s beginning to feel like she considers him to be the joke.</p><p class="p1">“The more time I spend in your presence the more you prove to me that you’ve done nothing to earn my fear. You can forgive a sheltered princess for believing the whispers of the nobility. I don’t have many chances to hear something worth the air it takes to say.”</p><p class="p1">“And you’ve decided I’m someone who wouldn’t waste my breath?” She smiles at that, a true smile, full and open and warm. It tugs at something in Geralt’s chest, makes him feel proud for causing it. He hasn’t expected this at all.</p><p class="p1">“I think you’ve made a point of proving that.” She says it like she’s laughing, and Geralt thinks the joke might be shared. She’s sharing a joke with him, creating a space just for them. It’s interesting. Intoxicating. He feels oddly welcome in her arms.</p><p class="p1">Her expression shifts, her smile thinning out, and the laughter leaves her eyes. She suddenly looks very serious and the air between them changes, suddenly electric. Geralt watches her, breathing very slowly now, feeling vulnerable under the weight of her eyes. It’s not something he’s felt for a long time, like someone is looking at him <em>and</em> seeing him. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. She takes a deep breath and opens her mouth, ready to say something.</p><p class="p1">The room explodes with applause and she jumps, suddenly returning to the room, dropping her hands from him. The energy between them is suddenly broken, and Geralt reaches out to touch her, desperate to get it back, without pausing to think. She flinches.</p><p class="p1">He feels shame curl into his chest and he looks away from her, taking a step back. He should’ve expected that the fear she’d reeked of earlier would have flooded back once she remembered whose arms she was nestled into.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, well,” she smiles, suddenly nervous, “um, thank you. For the dance.” She curtsies, but not nearly as low as the other women do, and then gathers her skirts in her hands and runs off, out of the court, down the hall, out of his sight.</p><p class="p1">What had he done that frightened her so? It was like a candle had been suddenly blown out by some unseen wind. He feels awkward now, unsure of what to do, where to put his hands.</p><p class="p1">“Come on, Geralt. Walk me to my rooms.” Triss slips into his side, wrapping her arms around his, and it surprises him. He hadn’t noticed her at all. It isn’t often that someone manages to sneak up on him, even when he is drunk enough that his eyes feel heavy, and he’s in such a loud crowd. Triss doesn’t tease him for his jump, just nuzzles her cheek into his arm and begins to drag him away.</p><p class="p1">Thank fuck he can leave now. <em>Respectfully</em>.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p1">Jaskier is awoken by a sharp knock at the door, and the swift sound of people(several?) filing into his room despite him not answering. He hadn’t been given any time to answer.</p><p class="p1">“Miss, please, get up.” Jaskier groans, curling the blanket over his form, and -oh. Hello. Those were new. Jaskier sits up, confused, to see his small, perky tits on his chest. “Miss, today is your wedding ceremony. You need not dally, we don’t have all day to prepare.” Jaskier looks over at the woman, bleary eyed, before he suddenly remembers where he is.</p><p class="p1">And why he has breasts.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, right. Yes.” He slips from the bed, the sheets pooling at his feet. He’s much smaller like this, soft in places he was once hard. It’s interesting. He quite enjoys this little bit of majick. And Geralt hadn’t seemed to notice it either, though he had indulged in quite a bit of alcohol, enough that another man would have been incapable of standing. Must be a witcher thing.</p><p class="p1">The women in the room begin to dress him, asking him to lift an arm or turn or stop breathing. He’s undressed his fair share of women, but sweet Melitele no wonder so many of his court dalliances insist on being fucked with their skirts rucked up around their hips rather than take it all off. This is a nightmare.</p><p class="p1">It takes hours. There is a lot of dress here, much more than the usual amount worn in the courts, and it demands a lot of structure. The hair takes it’s own time, demanding the attentions of at least three women, and another one is trying very hard not to stab him in the eye with the khol as he is jostled by the movements of the women pulling his hair.</p><p class="p1">“Miss, stop moving or I’ll stab you in the eye again.” Jaskier huffs, and glares at her.</p><p class="p1">“How am I expected to not move when these women are yanking on me in all directions.” The servant rolls her eyes and grabs his chin forcefully.</p><p class="p1">“Miss, really. You’re acting like you’ve never done this before.” Jaskier closes his mouth at that. He can’t exactly expect this to work if even the servants can tell he’s not the real princess.</p><p class="p1">By the time they’re done the sun is high in the sky and he is starving. He’s been allowed small bites of bread and meat with impatient sips of coffee inbetween their ministrations, but nothing more substantial. He hadn’t expected this to take nearly as long as it has, but he supposes it only makes sense.</p><p class="p1">It is his wedding day.</p><p class="p1">There’s no knock this time, but Jaskier is still forewarned of the King’s imminent arrival by the loud sound of his guard’s armor.</p><p class="p1">“Your Majesty.” The women all around him bow, low, at the waist, with their hands tucked in front of them. Jaskier bows his head, just only to his feet, and only briefly. He is royalty now, he can’t go around honoring his equals to the same extent that the servants would.</p><p class="p1">“Leave us. I need a moment alone with my daughter.” Jaskier watches patiently as the women scurry away, quick, and uses this chance to stuff his face with a much larger bite of meat. Once they’re gone the King looks at him for a long moment, waiting silently for him to wash his bite down with the cold coffee. The moment Jaskier sets the cup down the King tilts his head to the men behind him, never once looking away from Jaskier. “Wait outside.”</p><p class="p1">Jaskier feels the familiar, exciting thrum of fear shoot down his spine and he hopes, desperately, that he hasn’t been found out so soon. The King kneels before him, taking his face in his hands, and he almost looks scared.</p><p class="p1">This is a private moment, one between a daughter and her father, and Jaskier feels a deep twist of shame in his stomach for being the one who is here. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and gently places his hand over the one on his cheek. He doesn’t speak. Dalimira was always too frightened of her father to speak to him, and Jaskier thinks it would be unforgivable to do so now. Whatever Jaskier has to say wouldn’t be from his daughter.</p><p class="p1">His daughter wanted nothing more than to run away. She’s said all she wanted, Jaskier won’t sully that.</p><p class="p1">“Dalimira, I’m so sorry.” He sounds heartbroken, and Jaskier wishes that Dimmy has seen this instead. Would their relationship have shifted if she had? Did she ever get the chance to see her father looking at her with so much love?</p><p class="p1">The King produces a small jar, almost glowing, a pale lavender. “I’ve brought something, to ease you of your nerves.” Jaskier tries to keep his expression vague, but he is deeply curious. King Visimir II had always complained of his daughter’s nervous disposition, and Jaskier wishes that the King had been able to see the side of his daughter that Jaskier did last night. Would he be able to forgive her, if he knew how joyful she looked. Would he regret his time with her, his assumptions of her, if he’d seen the strength with which she’d yelled into the night.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier is a poet first, and his hands itch to write all these thoughts down in his journal. He wants to capture this strange feeling of loss. It isn’t his to feel, he can almost taste it radiating off the King. He can only imagine how it would increase, tenfold, at the mere sight of his daughter, laughing and yelling, speeding towards something new, something else, anything else.</p><p class="p1">“It may sting, Dalimira. I’m going to ask you to close your eyes, and then I’ll wrap the ribbon around you so you won’t rub at them until the ceremony, okay?” Jaskier nods, and tries to school his expression when the King leans forward and presses a gentle, loving kiss to his forehead. He loves his daughter, but how many Kings are allowed to love their daughters as openly as a regular man. He would be seen as weak. It would make his children weak.</p><p class="p1">There are several ballads he can write about this single moment.</p><p class="p1">Gently, the King uses an eyedropper to apply the potion, pressing his hand over one eye as he moves onto the other. A silent reminder to keep them closed. It does sting, but not much. Jaskier does feel calmer, taken care of, precious even. His own father had never been so loving. Was it his gender, or his own failings that had caused such resentment for him in the Pankratz home?</p><p class="p1">The ribbon is fastened around his eyes with just as much gentleness, if not moreso. It’s silk, soft, and the bow tied at the back of his head is strong, but not too tight. Jaskier knows there is no chance of it falling free too early, but he does make a point to note that if it does he will have to keep his eyes closed. Does he? He isn’t really sure.</p><p class="p1">“There. You look lovely, Dalimira. I know you will find happiness with your husband.” His hand curls around Jaskier’s jaw, a calloused thumb running small, soothing circles on his cheek. Jaskier assumes that the King is looking down at his daughter with pride. He’ll have to write to Dimmy about this, allow her a chance to make sense of this moment.</p><p class="p1">The King leaves, silently. Jaskier only knows he’s gone because he can hear him, farther away, quietly informing someone to not allow anyone to remove that ribbon. He is to wear it for the ceremony. A witcher tradition. That sounds like bullshit, but Jaskier doesn’t know any better to dispute it. It is rather romantic though, having a traditional handfasting and then untying a ribbon from your wife’s eyes to let the first thing in her new role be the sight of her husband. Very symbolic. It seems that the witchers are secretly nothing more than beefy poets themselves.</p><p class="p1">It’s incredibly disorienting to spend the next hour blindfolded. There are still a few last minute adjustments being made, a veil, jewels, someone files his nails. Will his nails be be effected by this when he removes his ring? Well, most likely, since he’ll be wearing the makeup and the clothes, too. Right? Maybe. It’ll be interesting to find out.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">____________________</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The wedding is loud. He can tell that there is a large crowd of people on either side of him, even if they’re quiet. There is still the murmuring of his dress, the beauty of the hall, the strangeness of it all. There is still the breathing. He’s not certain who is leading him down the long isle, but he is certain it’s not the King or the Queen. They usually sit at their thrones for these events, to bless the union.</p><p class="p1">He walks slowly, and how do women do this in these shoes? So impractical, he thinks he might loose his littlest toe entirely by the end of today. He’d floated the idea of being allowed to go barefoot but he’d been laughed to silence by the staff.</p><p class="p1">His shins bump into something soft, and the hand on his shoulder presses into him, gently, and he slowly sinks to his knees. There’s a cushion there, and the warmth of a body next to him, close. Jaskier reaches his hand up, tilting his head to the side, to see, before he realizes that he’s still blindfolded, and won’t be able to see at all. A hand catches his own, holds him like he’s fragile. The hand is calloused, rough, a real worker’s hand.</p><p class="p1">A moment later and there’s a touch, featherlight, against his cheek. A puff of hot air, a warning. Lips grazing his cheek, moving up to his ear.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier?” His name is spoken softly, so soft that no one could have heard it, even if they were right behind them. Geralt sounds confused, uncertain. Jaskier smiles, wide, mischievous. He should’ve known better than to try and trick a witcher with such a simple charm. Jaskier turns his head now, just until his nose can touch Geralt’s. Their mouths are close, he can feel the gentle puffs of air as his soon to be husband breathes.</p><p class="p1">“I wanted to tell you, last night, while we danced.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, I finished editing it much sooner than I expected to! So. You can have a new chapter a few hours early. As a little treat. Also I'm like literally so in love with Eskel.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The priest standing above them lets out a loud ‘ahem’, and Geralt stifles his growl. He pulls away from Jaskier to glares at the priest, but holds his tongue. He will not bow his head, it’s simply too vulnerable. He has his back turned to an entire Kingdom that considers him a blood thirsty warlord stealing their young princess, and even if he is wearing his leathers he still feels far too exposed to concede to baring his neck as well.</p><p class="p1"><em>Jaskier.</em> This is exactly why he no longer wanted to meddle in human affairs. They insist on their silly little traditions only to try and trick and manipulate their way out of them. Geralt grinds his teeth and tries very hard not to crush Jaskier’s hand in his own.</p><p class="p1">His medallion is vibrating. Not nearly enough to alert anyone else around him, but he can hear it all the same. A quiet, soft thrum. It is the only reason he thought ‘she’ might be Jaskier. The smell of him hadn’t left his supposed wife-to-be at all. It’s strong. He doesn’t smell of fear, or anger, or anything else he’d expected and it was the combination of those three things that led him to believe that some type of switch had occurred.</p><p class="p1">Had his medallion been vibrating last night? Fuck, there’s a reason why Triss kept telling him not to drink at these stupid court events.</p><p class="p1">So he took a chance. If anything, she’d just look mildly ashamed at being caught stinking of another man at her wedding, at worse he’d have to marry a man in a glamour. He hadn’t really expected Jaskier to admit to it so quickly. Like it was nothing more than an innocent joke.</p><p class="p1">This is a marriage of politics. If he stands up and demands to know where the real princess is, locates the trinket this charm is attached to, and reveals her to be no more than a pretty bard Geralt will likely be the one arrested. There is very little chance they won’t immediately assume he’s stolen the princess in order to spur on this war they’re all so convinced he wants. And if the King and Queen do know about this little scheme then it would only be that much more likely for them to twist the story in such a way. No King would ever openly admit to trying to skimp out on what is expected of him, to risking the very peace they’ve made such a show of trying to establish.</p><p class="p1">He’s trapped. He’ll either marry the bard, or he’ll be accused of kidnapping a princess and trying to prevent the very peace talks he seems to be the only ruler actually fighting for.</p><p class="p1">Geralt takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. Ciri. She’s safe, alive, tucked away in the Keep, hidden from the judgement and traditions of these very courts. If Geralt weren’t the one marrying, it would be Ciri. This is for her, for his pack, for his people. He feels the curling rage in his belly settle at this line of thought. The moment he’d become a father the world shifted under the weight of her presence. Everything went a foot to the left. He isn’t a lone wolf, making decisions that would only have consequences for himself anymore. He’s a father. A King even, no matter how much he never wanted it.</p><p class="p1">He’ll marry this bard, make a quiet exit, and then he can figure out where that princess has gone off to. If this is anything more serious than a runaway bride he’s royally fucked, but that’s a problem he’ll have to deal with as he comes to it. Right now he needs to focus on making it out of this Kingdom without getting arrested for treason. Hopefully if they can make it through this bloody night he’ll have time to put this fire out before it sends the entire Continent to war.</p><p class="p1">The only solace in this disaster is that there will be no princess in the Keep. There would have been no chance for her to find her happiness with him. Once he finds the trinket attached to this glamour he can easily send this bard on his way and use it to keep up appearances when necessary. If he’s very lucky, and has earned some type of blessing from the gods, then this can be a beneficial situation for everyone involved. Maybe he could force Lambert to wear the glamour. That would be fucking hilarious.</p><p class="p1">“And thus, with these knots, the two are united!” The hall erupts in applause. Geralt glances over at Jaskier, who is sitting still, head tilted towards him, but still blinded by the ribbon. Geralt glances up at the priest who is nodding his head towards Jaskier, and he assumes now must be the time to remove the blindfold.</p><p class="p1">The moment his one free hand reaches for the bow at the back the vibration of his medallion gets much, much stronger. He hesitates, just for a moment, what has he gotten himself into? He steels himself for anything, trying to contain the rage curling in his gut. Can things never be simple? He has no choice but to continue. The second his fingers touch the ribbon it thrums even louder, impossible to go on unnoticed. He clenches his jaw, bites his tongue, and pulls the ribbon free in one swift motion.</p><p class="p1">The moment Jaskier blinks at him Geralt’s medallion is lifted off his chest completely, shaking with the intensity of this majick. It’s so strong that Geralt can taste it in the air surrounding them, like a wind blowing over a field of wildflowers, electric and thick.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers, confused. He sounds so lost for a moment, so scared, that it makes Geralt pause. Whatever this is, Jaskier has had no involvement in it. He looks petrified and his eyes are purple. An almost glowing lavender, just a flash, fading quickly, into the most beautiful cornflower blue.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">___________________________</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Jaskier gasps. Gold. His eyes are gold. And slitted, like a cat’s. The pupils are small scars, darting around, like he’s searching for something. Jaskier met him last night, he knew that his eyes were gold, he knew his pupils were different, he knew the marry he was going to marry today was beautiful. So what is it about this strange heat in his body, in his chest, that has him so shocked by his appearance now?</p><p class="p1">Something hot, electric, and heavy pours down his spine. His chest feels like it’s bursting with a million butterflies. Jaskier’s entire world narrows down to two points. The feeling of Geralt’s calloused hands on his skin is almost electrifying. One cups his jaw, the other still bound to his own in their handfasting. His mind is swirling, there seems to be so much going on inside of him at once, Jaskier can’t think clearly.</p><p class="p1">He’s beautiful. White hair, half pulled back, falling in lazy, uncontrolled waves to frame his face. He’s tanned from countless hours spent in the sun, but his skin is still smooth. He’s wearing some insane leather fetish fantasy that Jaskier cannot wait to touch. Is that really what he’d decided to wear to his own wedding?</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can smell wildflowers. Sweet, cloying, almost strong enough to taste, offensive. </p><p class="p1">He wants to reach out, touch Geralt’s cheek, smooth that furrow inbetween his brows with his fingers, trace the shape of his eyebrow. It’s almost as if this is truly the first time Jaskier’s seen Geralt, despite all the hours he spent last night watching him, touching him. His face is red hot, his hands are shaking, he feels drawn to Geralt as if a physical weight were pulling him.</p><p class="p1"><em>Majick</em>. This is majick, powerful majick.</p><p class="p1">What did that stupid man put in his eyes?</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s eyes flutter, he feels like a fog of some sort is settling in his mind. The world feels so slow, the air around them is like water. Geralt’s hand is still cupping his jaw and he can feel every brush of his skin against his, like it’s the only place on his body capable of sensation.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier leans forward to brush his lips against Geralt’s. Hesitant, just a test, just a taste. Just to <em>see</em>. It feels like a lightening bolt shoots down his body, and he sighs into it, pressing their lips together more boldly. It takes a moment for Geralt to respond, but when he does Jaskier moans. It feels incredible, kissing him. Jaskier could do this forever. When Geralt pulls back, resting their foreheads together, tilting his mouth away, it’s too quick, too soon. Jaskier licks at his top lip, one last taste of him, keening, but respects the distance.</p><p class="p1">The fresh air fills his lungs, and the fog clears some, and slowly the sound of the crowd’s whooping, cheering, and applause begins to pour over him. That amazing explosion of feeling has begun to ebb away. He leans back, away from Geralt, looking into his eyes. He looks just as confused as he feels. The warmth he’d felt earlier sits on his shoulders, draped over his chest, a physical weight on his body. Something he can’t remove, something that only feels heavier the further away he gets from Geralt. This isn’t right.</p><p class="p1">“What the fuck did they <em>do</em> to me?” It feels like he can’t breathe, he wants to tear his hand free, wants to run away. His vision begins to blur, the wave of emotions crashing over him, all tangled up, overwhelming. This feels like some terrifying mixture of horror and the euphoria of new love.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know.” Geralt whispers it, looking so endearingly apologetic for it. Jaskier turns to glare at the King, outright, unabashed. He thinks he might scream, might claw at him, demanding to know what he’s done to him.</p><p class="p1">But he has a plan. And as Dalimira, he has a duty. No need to inspire suspicion when he’s managed to make it this far. Geralt’s hand wraps around his other free hand, and he gently pulls him up to stand. The longer they linger here the more danger he’s putting Geralt in but he can’t resist this anger welling up inside of him.</p><p class="p1">The King’s expression is regal, blank, strong. But his eyes. He at least has the good sense to look deeply ashamed.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, we need to go.” Geralt whispers in his ear, pleading. If this turns into a scene it could very easily become a serious problem for him. He knew exactly how this could end for Geralt if he’d chosen to make Jaskier’s scheme known, which is exactly why he didn’t try to lie when Geralt discovered it. He’s always preferred to be honest when he can. It makes it easier to keep track of things when he doesn’t have to remember when and who he’s lied to and about what.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier watches the King, glaring, unmoved, for a moment longer. He can feel the tears pouring down his cheeks silently, no matter how hard he tries to hold them back. He glances over to the Queen, just for a second, who is shaking. Her expression is unchanged. Whatever she had seen was enough to upset her and her eyes are filled with unshed tears, but she refuses to look at him.</p><p class="p1">“Please.” Geralt’s gentle, quiet plea is enough to break Jaskier’s fury. He turns to Geralt, and watches the way Geralt telegraphs his breathing. Deep breath in, loudly letting it out through his mouth, staring him right in the eye, unblinking, unafraid. Jaskier follows the action, and he’s surprised by the kindness of the simple act. Geralt could have dragged him down the isle, the crowds of people would have expected it, but he took one more moment, in a room full of nobility who would happily leap on any chance to have him thrown into prison, to allow Jaskier a chance to catch his breath.</p><p class="p1">Geralt brushes the tears from his cheek, surprisingly gentle, and Jaskier forces himself to wear his brightest smile.</p><p class="p1">The show must go on.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">___________________________</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Geralt’s entire body is tense, ready for a fight, for all hell to break loose at any moment, as they make their way down the steps. Their hands are still tied together and he can feel Jaskier’s cold tears on his knuckles. They are so close to getting out of here, getting away with this, getting somewhere safe. He keeps his mouth shut despite how much he wants shake Jaskier and demand to know <em>what the fuck is going on</em>.</p><p class="p1">He can see Triss at the end of the walkway, waiting by the door of the ostentatious carriage and Eskel is sitting at the bench holding the reins of the horses. The very sight of them brings him some relief and he can’t help but drag Jaskier along, trying to get out of here as quickly as possible.</p><p class="p1">People have filled the courtyard in front of the castle, pressing against the long line of heavily armored guards to get as close a view of them as possible. They’re whooping, applauding, waving red and gold and white ribbons in the air, tossing grain, celebrating. It’s very loud and serves no purpose other than to set Geralt even more on edge. Jaskier, though, is thriving under the attention. He’s is smiling, and waving, and playing it up the image of a happy-in-love newlywed perfectly.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s medallion is no longer reacting to the magic of whatever spell has been placed over Jaskier, and that only serves to worry Geralt more. If this were an simple spell then his medallion would still be vibrating. It only proves that Geralt hadn’t missed any signs under the fog of his drunkenness last night. The glamour Jaskier wears really is very well crafted, enough so that it’s somehow subtle enough to not trigger his medallion. The fact that the spell isn’t being detected either isn’t a testament to it’s subtlety however, just the efficiency with which it’s melded into the very core of Jaskier’s being.</p><p class="p1">There are very few sources for majicks that are so strong. All of which only go from dangerous to downright catastrophic.</p><p class="p1">When they finally make it to the carriage Geralt can relax some. They still have the banquet to deal with tonight and Geralt can already feel the throb of an upcoming headache in the base of his neck. This day seems to insist on lasting forever. The second they’re in the carriage Jaskier snaps to his head to him, scowling, lip shaking.</p><p class="p1">“<em>What the fuck was that</em>?” Geralt can see fear in his eyes, hidden under the rage. He wishes, suddenly, that he could see Jaskier’s face, not the glamour of this renegade princess. The thrum of fear, the way it blooms on Jaskier’s skin, filling the carriage with the sweat-sour scent of it, the way he presses his lips thin in an attempt to keep them from trembling. It all reminds him of the look on Ciri’s face when. Well.</p><p class="p1">Geralt looks down, to their hands, no longer able to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He has to bite down his desire to protect. He doesn’t know Jaskier, and no matter how terrified those eyes are, trusting him would be a mistake. The carriage surges forward.</p><p class="p1">“Where is the princess, Jaskier?” Geralt has done what he could to avoid a public confrontation. Hopefully there is nothing more to worry about than a petulant royal runaway, not a kidnapping, or anything worse. He needs to know that first, before he can handle anything else.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Dimmy? She’s fine.” Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh, trying to relieve himself of this fear, but he can smell it on him still. He breathes the way Geralt showed him to earlier, taking his time to calm himself. Geralt waits for Jaskier’s response patiently, whatever the effect that majick had on him Geralt knows enough to know it must have been deeply distressing. “I’ve got several friends who can care for her. She <em>hated</em> being a princess.” Jaskier speaks like he’s nothing more than annoyed now. Geralt can’t pick up on any of the usual signs that would indicate a lie, and believing this version of events would certainly be the much easier option.</p><p class="p1">“This is certainly a lot of effort to go to just to help a princess run away.” Jaskier smirks at that, rueful. Geralt doesn’t need to voice his unspoken question, Jaskier clearly knows what he’s asking.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Geralt. You don’t believe that my only motive in all this was simply to help free a friend from the suffocating responsibility of her station?” Jaskier’s smile is playful, taunting. It would be strange to see how quickly Jaskier capable of flipping through his emotions but Geralt can see the way his eyes are too wide, feel the gentle shake in his hands, hear the anxious twinge to his voice. He still reeks of fear and it twists Geralt’s stomach in knots, he’s never enjoyed the scent of it.</p><p class="p1">“It would certainly be much easier for everyone if that were the case.” Geralt focuses his attention on the chords, he wants to free himself of their binds, allow Jaskier the space he so clearly needs. He’s only just touched a knot when Jaskier slaps his hand away. It’s not painful, mostly just loud, but it’s enough for Geralt to take his hand away and look to Jaskier, surprised. There aren’t many people who would be so bold, especially when they still stink of fear.</p><p class="p1">“What are you doing? Don’t <em>untie</em> that.” Jaskier begins to slowly wiggle the chords an inch up on one side and then an inch on the other, and back and forth. It’s strange, and very slow, but the longer Jaskier focuses on their binds the more his fear ebbs away, leaving behind that wonderful sweetness of his natural scent. It seems to be a good distraction for him for Geralt leans back and allows it.</p><p class="p1">“Why not just untie it, it would be much quicker.” Jaskier glances up at him, scandalized.</p><p class="p1">“The entire point of this marriage is to ensure that you and the Northern Kingdoms engage in peace talks.” Jaskier pauses in his ministrations to point to a box that’s sitting on the bench across from them. It’s a beautiful silver cage, heavily carved, with glass on all sides to allow a full view of the empty velvet cushion inside. “We’re to display it in there. Intact.” He emphasizes the word ‘intact’ with another glance, looking deathly serious.</p><p class="p1">“What could this chord possibly have to do with the peace talks?” Jaskier smiles, softening his serious expression, without bothering to look away from his careful removal of their hands. By now Jaskier looks, and smells, completely comfortable beside him. Their shoulders and thighs still touch, and Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered at all that he’s sitting next to the most feared man in all of the Northern Kingdoms.</p><p class="p1">“This chord is a physical representation of our marriage. The marriage is a symbol of the peace talks. If we showed up to the banquet with an untied length of chord then it could be interpreted as a bad omen for the peace talks.” Geralt huffs with frustration. That is one of the stupidest things he’s ever heard. Humans and their traditions.</p><p class="p1">Still, it does seem like Jaskier wants to ensure that these talks go well, despite the fact that his very presence in the carriage, hidden under a well made glamour, puts those talks in danger. It’s such a confusing contradiction. Could this really be so simple as Jaskier trying to help a friend?</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier,” he looks up, eyes still so blue, and it makes Geralt pause. This is such a mess, there are so many different reasons Jaskier could be sitting next to him cloaked in this glamour. Looking into those eyes, how open they are, the warm scent of him invading his senses, Geralt relaxes completely into his seat. It’s stupid, and dangerous, and it may even risk the very peace he’d agreed to this nonsensical marriage for, but Geralt believes Jaskier’s story. He thinks, bitterly, that he’s gone soft.</p><p class="p1">“Tell me what you can about the spell they used against you. The more I know the easier it will be to help figure out what happened and how to fix it.” Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow together, and he smiles slowly, almost like he’s awed by the statement. It makes Geralt uncomfortable.</p><p class="p1">“You’ll help?” Geralt hesitates. He knows there’s little chance of him being able to help, but he has friends who will at least try. At the very least it is an obvious truth that Jaskier did not know that he would be subjected to the intense effects of a powerful majick. He trusts that Jaskier’s only motive is to help a friend and so the least he can do to repay that kindness is to try and free him from the shackles of this curse. He has a strong idea of what it is, but he hopes that he’s wrong.</p><p class="p1">“I promise to try.”</p><p class="p1">Jaskier says nothing, just returns his focus to slipping their hands free from the chord, still smiling. He slips his own hand free and carefully pulls the intricate puddle of knots away from Geralt’s, and lowers it into the box. It looks like a tangled mess, but the way that Jaskier treats it is reverent nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">“Never did think I’d be the type to marry, especially so young.” He laughs quietly as his own joke, falling back into his seat, still close enough for their shoulders to touch despite the extra room. Jaskier looks exhausted. Geralt wants to push the issue, but he doesn’t. If this spell is what he suspects it to be, then he can understand why Jaskier isn’t willing to admit to it just yet. He’ll find Yen, ask her to talk to him about it. Of all the mages in his Keep, he thinks she’ll be the best to handle it. She might not have the best bedside manner, but she will pour herself into finding a way to break it if he asks her to.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s medallion begins to vibrate, noticeable but not nearly as violent as during the ceremony. This time it’s simply reacting to the crackling energy of Triss’s portal. Jaskier watches it shake, curious. There’s no hint of his fear and Geralt doesn’t want to smell it on him ever again. The honeyed citrus of his natural scent is such a delight that drowning it under something so sour felt like a physical loss.</p><p class="p1">“What’s happening?” His voice is small, and he reaches up to touch the medallion. <em>Bold</em>. Geralt catches his hand before he has the chance, cradling his wrist in his palm, gentle. It’s continuously surprising how comfortable Jaskier feels around him, to reach out to touch him without a moment’s hesitation. It’s such a stark contrast to how every other human he’s encountered acts around him that it’s almost unnerving. Geralt holds his wrist loosely enough that Jaskier can easily pull his hand back, but he doesn’t. Of all the things that have happened today, allowing Jaskier to touch his medallion seems like the action too intimate to allow.</p><p class="p1">“Triss has made us a portal, to bring us to the gates outside of the Keep.” Jaskier beams. He looks far too excited at the prospect of being surrounded on all sides by witchers, locked away in their court. He won’t be the only human there, but he’ll certainly be the first nobleborn allowed past the gates. Though, Geralt thinks bitterly, not for long.</p><p class="p1">“Does your necklace react to the majick?” Geralt nods. He still has Jaskier’s wrist in his hand and Jaskier still makes no move to free it. He is faced again with his desire to see Jaskier’s face. He’s growing tired of this glamour. He wants to see <em>his</em> mouth, <em>his</em> hands, <em>his</em> scandalously low necklines.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier is staring at him, pulled close. When had he gotten so close? The scent of him gets stronger, overwhelming his senses, as his body heat increases. He’s never smelled anyone like this before, and somewhere in the back of his mind he has the fleeting thought that he’d like to taste him. The kiss from earlier had been drowned in the taste of the majick. He’d missed his chance and he wants to steal another. Jaskier’s lips are parted, and Geralt can see the blush rising onto his cheeks, the way his eyes glance down at Geralt’s own mouth. Geralt watches as Jaskier leans even closer, unmoving. If he moves, will it break the sudden tension between them? He can feel the air of Jaskier’s breath against his mouth, their noses touch, and Geralt wants. There’s a small thrum of anxiety flashing in the back of his mind, had the spell effected him, too? Was this magnetic pull to him a side effect of the majick?</p><p class="p1">He can smell the gentle sweetness of wildflowers mix into Jaskier’s scent and it’s enough to break the spell. Geralt turns away from Jaskier, clearing his throat, and releases his hand. He takes a deep breath, trying not to take note of the wonderful mixture of smells in the air, and tries to steady himself.</p><p class="p1">Fae majicks. The strongest, most dangerous, cruelest majicks of them all. He clenches his hands into fists. Jaskier has made it very clear that he doesn’t want to talk about the spell that’s been placed on him, but Geralt knows what this is. The intensity of it, the scent of it, the way that Jaskier seems drawn to him, over and over again.</p><p class="p1">A fucking fae love potion.</p><p class="p1">The carriage comes to a stop, and Geralt relaxes some. He’s still unwilling to look at Jaskier, to see how he’d reacted to Geralt pulling away from him. Jaskier is dangerous and Geralt needs to remember that. He’s never met someone who was so quick to trust him, to feel comfortable enough to reach out and touch him, to relax by his side. There are many people in his life now who don’t flinch when he yells, who don’t fear him when he scowls, but all of them he’s had to win over. Never has he met someone who treated him like a man first.</p><p class="p1">He’s always desperately chased after those who don’t fear him like a monster. He would have thought that all the work he’s poured into carving out a space for him and his brothers in the world would have eased that pain some, but clearly not.</p><p class="p1">The door opens and he can smell the comforting, familiar scent of Eskel. The sharp cold in the outside air rushes in and helps to further clear his mind.</p><p class="p1">“Hello, there, Jaskier.” Eskel smiles, as easy and charming as ever. He offers Jaskier his hand to help him free and Geralt turns to watch him take Eskel’s hand and slip out of the carriage. “I’m Eskel, I’m Geralt’s right hand. That means you can trust me to be yours as well.” Geralt can see Jaskier smile, and it would be flirtatious if his eyes weren’t red rimmed, the khol around his eyes smeared beyond repair.</p><p class="p1">“Well, Eskel. Is it a witcher thing that you know my name? The uh, the sensitive hearing, right?” Geralt listens to their easy conversation as they walk away. He wishes, not for the first time, that it came to him as easily as it comes to Eskel. There’s no possible chance that he’d be where he is right now if Eskel hadn’t stepped up to fill the position of his right hand.</p><p class="p1">Geralt steps out of the carriage and looks around the grounds of Kaer Morhen. It’s always been beautiful as the sun sets, the sky painted in pinks and oranges, casting beautiful reflections on the stone. There are witchers everywhere, drinking and singing and celebrating, many of whom have left the safety of the gates to join the humans’ celebration just outside of them. It was to be expected, really. Witchers have never been ones to comply with the silly idea of class distinction that the humans had. The party seems to have already become rowdy. At least his men and his people are having a good time. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe through the increased pounding of his head. He is suddenly very tired.</p><p class="p1">He can smell Yen before he sees her, eyes still closed. She comes to stand by his side, gently bumping their shoulders together.</p><p class="p1">“You know, there was a fleeting moment, a long time ago, when I thought <em>I’d</em> be the one marrying you.” Geralt turns to her, surprised. They’ve known eachother a long time now, maybe fifty years, give or take ten. Still, he’d never expected her to say anything like this.</p><p class="p1">“Really?” She smiles, rueful, taking a moment before she responds.</p><p class="p1">“Back before I found out about the djinn. We would’ve murdered eachother, of course, but still. I feel like I’m giving something up.” She turns to face him, still smiling. The sight of her so relaxed, so comfortable around him, despite what they’d put eachother through, despite all the ways they’d hurt eachother. All the ways they’d wanted to hurt eachother. He smiles, a real smile, unrestrained. </p><p class="p1">“Well, don’t give up on me just yet, Yen. I ended up marrying a <em>bard</em>.” That startles a snort out of her, and she looks up at the sky, feigning frustration. Things between them are much easier now, much more gentle and Geralt is endlessly thankful for her presence by his side.</p><p class="p1">“Of course you’d cock it up, Geralt.” Geralt shifts his weight to better face her, and levels her with a serious look. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell Yen this, doesn’t want to invade Jaskier’s privacy any more than he already has, but he had promised to help, and she’d need to know what’s happened in order to do so.</p><p class="p1">“They used a fae love potion on him.” It takes a moment for Yen to process that, turning to face him fully, expression shifting to one of surprise and uncertainty.</p><p class="p1">“Are you sure?” Geralt nods. “That’s old majick, Geralt. Where could they even get their hands on something like that?”</p><p class="p1">“Fucked if I know, Yen. Do you know why they would use something like it?” She leans her weight on one foot, and looks back to the entrance of the Keep.</p><p class="p1">“It was seen as a mercy.” Yen doesn’t look willing to elaborate on that thought, but Geralt understands all the silent things she’s implying. A curse to send daughters off to be subservient, loving, doting wives to men who would never view them as anything more than cattle. It makes him frown, makes his gut flip uncomfortably.</p><p class="p1">“Is there any way for you to break it?” She looks back at him then, looking for something from him.</p><p class="p1">“You like him.” She says it like she’s disappointed.</p><p class="p1">“Yen, he’s.” Geralt suddenly doesn’t know what he was going to say. He thinks she might be right. Fuck. She smirks.</p><p class="p1">“He’s a <em>stray</em>, that’s what he is.” She turns to start walking for the entrance and Geralt follows her. Once the sun is fully set there will be five or six carriages arriving with stuffy nobles who will be heavily disappointed in what they’ll find here. If they’re lucky it’ll be enough to prevent them from ever wanting to come back.</p><p class="p1">“Can you point out a single person here who isn’t?” It’s interesting, the way Yen can smile without moving a single feature on her face.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll see what I can do for him, Geralt.” He can let go of all his tension then, thankful. He knows that they’ll have to have a more indepth conversation about Jaskier, about what they’re going to do with him. But at least Yen has agreed to help him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">___________________________</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Jaskier is seated inbetween Geralt and Eskel. He’s already decided that he likes Eskel, he’s incredibly handsome and polite to boot. Jaskier has already managed to discover that Eskel gently traces the shape of his scar when he’s uncomfortable, or nervous, and it’s such a charming tick that Jaskier can’t stop himself from seeing if he can get Eskel to do it again. And again. He wonders if Eskel even notices that he does it.</p><p class="p1">The nobility are seated at a table that spans the length of the room, mirroring the set up of the high tables he’s sitting at on a raised platform. The other tables are set up perpendicular, four of them, as long as the remainder of the court and every chair is occupied.</p><p class="p1">The witchers are loud, and Jaskier <em>loves</em> it. The witchers cheer, raising and spilling their ales, and they sing drunkenly, some have even moved to the clear space inbetween the two rows of tables to dance. It’s an old stomping dance, using their bodies to make the music, athletic and almost violent compared to the more traditional dancing of their engagement celebrations last night in the Redanian courts.</p><p class="p1">The nobles <em>hated</em> it. They could not have looked more uncomfortable if the witchers brought out an entire brothel and started fucking them on the tables. Which, well, Jaskier doesn’t think it’s too far out of the realms of possibility. That would be quite the show to start out their wedding night.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier leans in close to Geralt, unable and unwilling to hide his wide smile. “This is, by far, the most fun wedding celebration I’ve ever attended.” Jaskier can see Geralt smirk, barely more than a twitch of his lips.</p><p class="p1">“You mean that.” Geralt isn’t asking, and he seems surprised that Jaskier would say what he means. Jaskier ignores it, chalking it up to the fact that he’s been forced to endure endless political doublespeak for the past three days.</p><p class="p1">“Is this magnificently obscene display typical of witchers or are they all hamming it up to try and prevent any more monarchs from invading your Keep?” That earns him a real smile, but he tries to hide it from view behind his ale. Geralt’s smile is absolutely gorgeous and Jaskier can’t fathom why he’s so insistent on hiding or biting it back.</p><p class="p1">“No, witchers don’t care to hide their nature. Especially not here.” Geralt looks proud, looking out at his people. Jaskier smiles, moving back to his own space, appreciating the sight of it. Geralt looks comfortable, happy even. That warmth he’d been enveloped in when Geralt removes his blindfold begins to pour over him once more and he feels that majick-induced need to close the space between them and touch.</p><p class="p1">A loving King, looking down protectively at his people, in the home he’s carved out for them in the world. It’s a beautiful sight, one that his hands twitch to capture in his songbook. He catches the fleeting scent of wildflowers and tears his eyes away from him to drain the remainder of his wine. He’s drunk, but not nearly enough.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier might have wanted to kiss him. He’s never been one to deny himself a simple pleasure and there aren’t many who can say they’ve bedded a witcher, much less the very King of them all. He’s never resisted the pull of a lover’s arms into their bed regardless of their spouse, their station, or their gender. He is simply here to please, and gods is he good at it. But with the warm, tingling thrum of the potion’s effects wrapped around his shoulders, like a physical weight pressing down on him, he can no longer trust that desire. It’s not his own.</p><p class="p1">The dancing witchers have begun to increase the intensity of their dance, cheering along a few men who have broken out into a small brawl. It’s interesting, the way they move, the way their fight almost looks like a dance all it’s own. It’s clearly a fight, but there’s no heat to it, no anger. Everyone is smiling and taunting and enjoying themselves all the more for it. It’s beautiful; brothers in arms engaging in play. Jaskier watches them as his mind continues to spin away.</p><p class="p1">He’s never second guessed himself before, never questioned his desires, never been uncertain of himself. Jaskier twirls his empty goblet in his hand and wallows in his bitterness for just a moment longer before setting it down with a loud thump and plastering on his most winning smile. This is his wedding night, dammit. He’s going to enjoy it.</p><p class="p1">“You.” Jaskier plops his chin into his open palm, elbow resting on the table. He pauses for as long as it takes for Geralt to look at him, one eyebrow lifted, curious. Does he love his new husband’s attention because it’s a thrill to look into the eyes of the most feared man in all the Northern Kingdoms or because of the majick weighing down on him? “You want to join them.” Geralt tilts his head at that. Jaskier is drunk so he can’t be certain, but he thinks that he sees amusement in Geralt’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Do I?” Jaskier nods, smug. It’s obvious.</p><p class="p1">“White wolf! Come and give that pretty new wife of yours a proper show!” Jaskier doesn’t see who it is calling for Geralt’s attention, but his voice is booming, impossible to miss. Hundreds of witchers howl, raising their mugs to the ceiling, bellowing out all at once ‘<em>white wolf</em>’ so loud Jaskier thinks the very floor shakes. Jaskier laughs. It’s wonderful, exciting, and so very unique.</p><p class="p1">“Here, here!” Jaskier raises his empty wine goblet, thankful that it is empty because if not he would’ve spilled wine everywhere. The crowd breaks out into another round of cheering at the sight of Jaskier encouraging their suggestion. Geralt’s clearly resisting the invitation, though Jaskier can’t think of a single reason why.</p><p class="p1">“You don’t think it would be <em>too obscene</em>? In front of all these royals.” Geralt is teasing him. It’s surprising and familiar and Jaskier likes the look of it on him. He wants to meet Geralt tit for tat, he wants to see how far he can push, he wants to get him to admit that he <em>likes </em>him.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier bites his lip and tries to battle the beast within him that wants so desperately to plop himself in his husband’s lap and demand to be taken to bed. It’s odd, denying himself like this. He’s certain that he’d test his boundaries like that if he hadn’t been administered the strange potion, but now there’s no certainty at all. He’s probably gotten too drunk. He tends to get very slutty when he drinks wine.</p><p class="p1">“You aren’t going to start caring what the nobility thinks, are you? That would make for a very dull Kaer Morhen. And this,” Jaskier waves his hand towards the crowds, “would be a shame to loose.” The scent of wildflowers returns, strong, like the overpowering perfumes of cheap whores. It sours Jaskier’s valiant attempts at a good mood immediately.</p><p class="p1">A choice stolen from him, an emotion he probably would have accepted happily before, now forced onto him. The way this feels isn’t good, it’s a curse pretending to be good.</p><p class="p1">“Go on, then. No point in denying yourself for such a silly excuse as the nobility. Neither of us want them here anyway.” Jaskier would have usually emphasized that statement with a kiss, something filthy, fun, and flirty, but he’s too sour for it. His mouth is full of bitterness. Geralt’s face falls and all the pride he’d had moments ago disappears. Jaskier hasn’t known Geralt long enough to parse out all the subtle differences of his expressions and he is well and truly blasted right now, so Jaskier simply smiles and pretends like he’s having the time of his life.</p><p class="p1">After a moment of silence between them Geralt leaps over the table and then over the next table -much to the shock and horror of the visiting nobility-, and slams into his opponent. Jaskier watches, clapping, as the crowd of witchers devolves into a true brawl. They act more like an army supplied with beer and a night off than they do a court of nobility. Jaskier supposes they are more like an army, it’s the Northern Kingdoms that have insisted they’re a royal court.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier.” Jaskier turns to his right, where Eskel is, and raises his eyebrows. His body is wine-warm, and his limbs are heavy, and he’s absolutely miserable. He tries to continue to hide it. “Let me ask you a question.” Jaskier leans back in his chair and tries very hard to look serious through the fog of his drunkenness.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, of course Eskel. I’ll answer anything you ask, as long as I want to.” He smiles at his own joke, but it is true. He simply will not speak if he doesn’t want to.</p><p class="p1">“Are you someone we should worry about?” Jaskier doesn’t hide his confusion and Eskel is very serious and Jaskier is still <em>very</em> drunk. He’s usually much better at holding his own. Three glasses of wine shouldn’t have been nearly enough to do him in this badly.</p><p class="p1">“Are you asking me if I’m a spy?” Jaskier doesn’t try to hide his offense. Eskel’s silence is enough to confirm Jaskier’s suspicion, but the added effect of his index finger gently tracing his scar solidified the truth. Jaskier sighs, and slides his arm around Eskel’s, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. Eskel takes the familiar gesture in stride, clearly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t make any attempt to pry Jaskier off. And if Jaskier is fully honest with himself, he just really needs a friend right now, or at the very least a friendly touch. “No, Eskel. I’m not a spy. I really was just trying to help out a friend.” Of course, it’s not just that, Geralt wasn’t wrong when he commented that this was a lot of effort to go through just to help out a friend. But, it’s not a lie, either. Jaskier really isn’t here to spy.</p><p class="p1">Eskel’s shoulders relax at that, just a little.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! I only just found out that you've been missing out on my gratuitous italics and that's a huge shame. So, if you're reading this and thinking 'wow she must have just discovered italics' fear not. I have loved those funky slanted words my whole life and scholars will have to pry them from my cold dead hands to rid my work of them. </p><p>Also I'm really just loving all your comments and I'm glad you're all having just as much fun with this as I am. I'm so excited because we are really starting to get into the meat of this thing now babes. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Jaskier comes to slowly. He’s unwilling to open his eyes, but he knows he’s awake. His body feels warm, cradled in a soft bed, surrounded by the delicious sensation of thick furs. He realizes slowly, as he stretches his body to chase that lovely feeling agin and again, that he’s naked. It takes him still more time to recognize that it’s his body that he’s in right now. Oh, how he has missed his own skin.</p><p class="p1">There’s something uncomfortable pressing into his chest and he pulls up onto his elbows, taking in a deep breath. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, he can feel his stomach rolling, empty, the sheen of sweat on his skin, warm from the furs, and the weight of his sleep on his body. What a wonderful morning. Jaskier revels in it for a moment longer, warm, comfortable, well rested, and with all the time in the world to keep sleeping away. He can feel something heavy swinging slowly from his neck, bumping into his sternum until it settles in the air. A necklace. He’s never really been one for necklaces before.</p><p class="p1">Once he’s fully appreciated this moment he’s able to open his eyes and look down. Oh, how smart. He must have drunkenly threaded the pinky ring onto this chain with any other gold rings he could find. The glamour he wears of Dalimira is attached to that pinky ring and keeping it in his possession until he can be trusted to wander the Keep on his own is the closest thing to insurance he has against being thrown out on his ass.</p><p class="p1">He looks around to inspect the room. There’s a loud murmur of men working, shouting but nothing he can make out. The sun has barely even touched the morning sky, how can this many men be awake and working? The room is fairly small for a princess, but it is the Keep, not exactly a castle. The door is open wide enough for him to see a larger living area, a dying fire in a heart that’s little more than embers and smoke. It’s scattered with boxes that he assumes hold the luxuries expected of a princess and Jaskier wonders if there’s anything hidden away that might be more fitting of his gender. He thinks back to the letter Dimmy gave him that is still tucked into his doublet in the hidden pocket, probably a little worse for wear now.</p><p class="p1">Giving it to Queen Hedwig right now would be a terrible idea. The second she learns that her daughter is who knows where, doing who knows what, living among the peasantry, she’ll most likely single handedly attempt to tear Kaer Morhen down to nothing but pebbles. He might have to read it, slide a hot knife under the wax seal and pop it open, to see exactly what it has to say. Depending on what she’s admitted to he might not be able to send it at all. Well, the less Dimmy knows, the better. Right now she has no idea what her father would be willing to curse and her mother has no idea that her daughter is living the life of freedom from station she’s always wished for. All in all it seems a pretty fair trade to Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier plops back down into the bed, groaning away thoughts of Dimmy and all the guilt he’s simply not interested in scrounging up. He tucks his head under a pillow to further muffle the sounds of the army outside and allows himself to relax back into that puddle of warmth. There are plenty of hours left to deal with all of these problems. Hours that are illuminated with the warm rays of sunlight.</p><p class="p1">He’s been lazily dozing in and out of sleep when a loud knock at the door drags him back up to the surface. He grunts loudly, which the offending party takes as permission to enter, but of course they may have been halfway through opening the door before he’d managed to respond. Jaskier doesn’t bother to get up, or cover his modest, or anything more than pull his head out from under the pillow and watch the intruder walk towards him.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, correct?” The intruder is quite beautiful, slim, very well dressed. Maybe she’ll be interested in the gaudier pieces packed away in those boxes. Jaskier absolutely will not be wearing another corset in his life. He pouts once she’s fitted herself into his doorway. He’d thought he’d be free of ladies-in-wait once he’d gotten to the Keep.</p><p class="p1">“Come on, now. Up. I haven’t got all day.” Jaskier heaves the world’s heaviest sigh and sits up, allowing the blanket to pool around his waist, uncaring. If she’s going to intrude than she’s going to deal with his immodesty. It is his best afterall.</p><p class="p1">“M’up.” Jaskier puts on a bitchy smile for her to emphasize his point and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The sunlight is much stronger now and it takes some time for his eyes to adjust to being useful once more.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt tells me you’ve been cursed with some very potent majicks.” Jaskier tenses, he’s not sure if he’s ready to have this conversation. Especially so early in the morning. He groans, hanging his head.</p><p class="p1">“Can I request a meal or possibly a shot of vodka before we have this conversation?” She raises an eyebrow and continues to wait for a real answer from him. Well, if not now, when? “The King, ah,” he waves his hand in his face an oval around his eyes, “anointed my eyes with something. For my ‘nerves’.”</p><p class="p1">The intruder crosses her arms and leans against the doorjam. She looks like she’s waiting but Jaskier just smiles. He’s always been rather petulant when he’s just woken up and she didn’t say please.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt told me your eyes were purple for a moment.” Jaskier tilts his head, brows furrowing, confused. This is the first time he’s hearing about it. The potion the King used was purple. “Did you not know that?”</p><p class="p1">“No.” Jaskier clears his throat.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, do you know what it was that the King used on you?” Jaskier has a pretty good guess, but he’s not willing to admit to it at all. Admitting to it makes it far too real. Besides, Jaskier is fairly confident that she’s already fully aware of what he’s been cursed with. It’s possible that everyone who attended the ceremony does, too. It’s not a particularly challenging problem to solve.</p><p class="p1">“You know it’s not often that I find myself in the presence of a beautiful woman who’s name I don’t know.” He’s avoiding the truth, yes, but it’s also strange to have a woman in his doorway at such an ungodly hour in the morning. Especially one who’s leaning on the doorjam rather than trying to silently slink through it. She doesn’t change her expression, but Jaskier can practically hear her trying to decide if she’s going to become annoyed or continue her gentle attempts to get him to open up about his problem.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, if you don’t want me to help you then I won’t. I’ve got plenty of my own responsibilities.” Jaskier sighs, dropping his shoulders. She’s just trying to help, he should try harder to be more grateful. It’s just. This makes him very vulnerable. There aren’t many men in the world who would be able to resist all the benefits a love cursed, beautiful, young bride affords them.</p><p class="p1">“I think it might have been. Um.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Well, it was a love potion.” She nods in agreement. So she did know.</p><p class="p1">“It’s banned majick. Something that was once used because it was believed to be a mercy. Something that would allow daughters to find some pleasure in their marriages to men they were given to as payment for lands or whatever bullshit the nobility trade their daughters for.” Jaskier hangs his head, presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and tries to breathe through this particular trivia.</p><p class="p1">“And we’re sure there’s no time for vodka?”</p><p class="p1">“There is one hope. Because these majicks have been banned for a long time it’s very possible that it was an old potion, or a weaker knockoff, or simply poorly crafted. Tell me how it felt when you opened your eyes for the first time.”</p><p class="p1">“Right. Sober, then. It felt like,” Jaskier focuses his attention to the dirt under his nails and tries to make this come out as quickly and conversationally as possible, “that incredible rush of fear and excitement, just shooting down my spine. My heart was pounding like a drum and everything in the room narrowed down to just Geralt. The world just stopped.” Jaskier’s fallen in love several times, always rushing into it, an absolute unrestrained glutton for pleasure. He’s never felt the world stop like that before, though. It was unique, breathtaking.</p><p class="p1"><em>And it wasn’t his</em>. Jaskier scowls. There would have been a day where he’d be able to feel that level of instinctual, primal attraction to someone. But now it’s been stolen. And when it does happen his first thought will be ‘<em>like</em> <em>Geralt</em>’.</p><p class="p1">“And now?” She keeps her voice neutral and quiet, and Jaskier can appreciate that she’s clearly trying to put him at ease in her own way but he still feels his hackles raise. She’s here to help, she’s going to help.</p><p class="p1">“It feels like a heavy winter cloak, draped around me.” The curse weighted on him. He can feel his own annoyance, his drowsiness, his nausea, his hunger, and that familiar petulance he’s never been capable of reigning in during the mornings. But all of these are his feelings, they don’t have weight, or physical sensation. They’re merely emotions.</p><p class="p1">He can feel the curse on his shoulders, warm, and electric, physical. It’s strange, and dulled to the point to where he can almost forget it, but it’s still there.</p><p class="p1">“And if I were to tell you that Geralt wants to see you?” What? Jaskier looks up to her, ready to ask her what she means by that question, but then he understands. His chest flutters with an explosion of warm anticipation. He feels a hint of that electric thrum down his shoulders, pooling into his fingers. It’s nothing close to the intensity he’d experienced yesterday, but it’s still there. And just at the mention of his name, with the idea that Geralt would want to see him.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier frowns, annoyed that the curse seems to have taken such hold over him. He didn’t feel any of this last night when he sat next to Geralt at the high tables. Though, to be fair, it is still a very subtle reaction and he’d been very good at distracting himself from his problems.</p><p class="p1">“I can feel that the curse wants me to be excited, but I’m not. Not really.” Her eyebrows gently jump, a hint of an expression, and it’s the first time she’s actually telegraphed an emotion using her facial features that it fills Jaskier with anxiety. Gods, this doesn’t seem good at all.</p><p class="p1">“You can tell the difference between what the potion makes you feel and how you actually feel?” A wave of dread pours over Jaskier at that.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, <em>sweet Melitele</em>,” he looks away from her, his hand rubbing across his mouth. He takes a moment to settle himself once more, to make sure that the disgust doesn’t show in his tone. “Are you implying that it’s meant to be strong enough to rob women of their ability to even notice they’ve been cursed?” Her silence is a sudden, heavy weight in the room.</p><p class="p1">He has been truly fucking lucky this time.</p><p class="p1">“It’s a good sign, Jaskier.” Her tone is suddenly very comforting, low, and sweet. It has the opposite effect, he feels like she’s speaking to him the way one would a chid. “This means it is very weak, much weaker than I’d expected. There’s a chance we could break it.” No promises. He likes that, she’s not going to promise that she’ll fix it when she’s not certain if she can. He’s still trying very hard not to hate her, she’s the messenger, not the culprit. It’s King Visimir II he hates.</p><p class="p1">“So, what now?” She straightens her posture, shoulders squared, chin up.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll do some research, talk to a few colleagues, collect as much information as I can. This isn’t a simple task, Jaskier. It’s going to take some time. I wouldn’t expect much of anything to come out of it.” Jaskier smiles bitterly, returning his attention to the dirt under his nails.</p><p class="p1">“Good to know.” His voice drips with sarcasm. It’s quiet for a long moment. Jaskier realizes dully that he can still hear the sound of men training from the window. It’s been hours, how long do they train for? Seems a bit overkill.</p><p class="p1">“Yennefer.” Jaskier looks up at her, still standing in the doorway. She doesn’t look like she’s putying him, she hasn’t looked like that once since they’ve started talking. He’s able to give her a sincere smile, not bitchy. Okay, maybe a little bitchy, but it is very early and she denied him alcohol. Something about her expression makes him think that she prefers her companions a little bitchy anyway so he doesn’t feel the need to put on airs around her.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, Yennefer.” Jaskier watches as she turns to leave and something ice cold pours into his stomach. He calls out for her attention before she can leave, his tone a little desperate.</p><p class="p1">“Does Geralt already know? That it was a love potion, I mean.” He knows full and damn well that Geralt knows, but he needs to be certain. Jaskier’s never quite felt this flayed open before and he knows his smile falters too early, only makes him look more pitiful.</p><p class="p1">“I’m afraid so.” She speaks evenly but she looks almost apologetic. “It’s the scent of it. Fae majick apparently has a very particular scent.” He nods for a moment, mind spinning. Geralt knows that he’s been cursed with a love potion. He can also, apparently, smell majicks. Is that why he smells wildflowers from time to time? Geralt can smell it, too.</p><p class="p1">The gentle click of the door lets Jaskier know that Yennefer has left.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s sitting at the table in his rooms. The hearth is sporting a low fire, just enough to chase away the sharp chill that seeps in through the stone, but not enough to warm the room too much. Ciri’s morning training will be over soon and she’ll be warm enough from the training to appreciate a fire any stronger. Geralt can feel the cold but it doesn’t effect him as much as it would a normal human.</p><p class="p1">The table is set with their breakfast. Nothing extravagant, nothing nearly as wasteful as what is traditionally served to nobility, but still good. Simple foods, filling, well made, and with a few luxuries added in. Ciri’s come to like coffee quite a lot for someone so small, but Geralt’s careful to water it down for her. Ciri practically vibrating from the caffeine was not a mistake he wanted to repeat.</p><p class="p1">She bounds in, loud, Vesemir in tow, and plops into the chair across from him. Her hair is tied back into a long plait but it’s messy. She looks like a little wild thing, dirt smeared on her skin from the voracity that she throws into her training. Seeing Vesemir gives him pause, though. Ciri’s usually not accompanied by a personal guard. The Keep is the safest place in the world for her, so it seems strange that Vesemir would feel the need to do so now.</p><p class="p1">“Wow, I’m <em>starving</em>.” She starts to pile food onto her plate and Geralt smiles at the sight of her so relaxed, so comfortable. It’s been a long four years to get her to open back up, and even still she’s more reserved than she used to be. She’s so young. It hurts him to see all the ways she’s already hardened to the world around her.</p><p class="p1">“Vesemir?” Geralt knows he’s still hovering in the doorway, hovering for just a moment longer. Geralt doesn’t turn to look at him, Ciri’s smile as she smears jam onto bread is a far easier sight on his heart. Vesemir has refused the invitation to join them enough times that Geralt doesn’t offer them anymore.</p><p class="p1">“Word about your bride as spread around, Geralt.” Geralt turns to Vesemir, but stops short. He didn’t say all he meant, but he didn’t need to. With someone unexpected in the Keep, it makes sense that the witchers would be more protective of Ciri than usual. Geralt can see that Ciri has paused, watching them, waiting to see what will happen. No doubt curious about this exchange. After another moment Geralt can hear the old man disappear down the hall.</p><p class="p1">It’s been a long time. Geralt watches the empty doorway, jaw tight, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders dropped. He may never be forgiven. What is one more stone to carry when his back is nearly breaking under the weight of all he’s done.</p><p class="p1">He turns back to Ciri for now, smiling. He’d started insisting that they spend their breakfasts together right after Calanthe’s death, an old tradition from Pavetta. It had been a struggle, but he could see early on how much the routine of it helped her feel secure in the world once more. It was a nightmare, but they got through it.</p><p class="p1">“So, how was the <em>wedding</em>?” She’s still mad she couldn’t go, but she’s trying to hide it, pretend like she’s above it all. It’s amusing. She’s spending entirely too much time with Yen.</p><p class="p1">“Boring. Married the wrong person.” That makes Ciri’s mouth drop and Geralt bites back his chuckle, trying for all the world to focus his attention on his breakfast. Ciri waves her hands in the air desperately to regain his attention.</p><p class="p1">“Well? You need to tell me what happened!” Geralt smiles and take a swig of his coffee, slowly, just to watch her grow even more impatient. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and then <em>not</em> tell me.”</p><p class="p1">“The princess I supposed to marry ended up running away and she had a friend put on a glamour to take her place. <em>He’s</em> here, but I need you to avoid him.” Geralt levels her with a serious expression so she can understand that he’s not kidding about her avoiding him. There’s no telling what effect Jaskier’s seeing her could have on her future, and Geralt’s not ready to let go of her just yet. Ciri scrunches her nose at that, unhappy.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Ugh</em>, Uncle Geralt, how long will you make me hide away from everything that’s interesting?” She goes back to her breakfast and picks at it, pouting, but not without rolling her eyes first. </p><p class="p1">“You’re only twelve, Ciri. The moment you’re of age you’re free to do whatever you wish, but until then, please. Let me protect you from the bloodthirsty courts of nobility. They’ll try to rob you of all your freedom the second they learn you’re still alive.” Ciri’s shoulders drop at that, but she’s clearly forming words in her mind. Geralt focuses on his own food and keeps his mouth shut, allowing Ciri her time to put together her thoughts. Geralt has become a very patient man since she arrived. At least with her.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, I’ll stay hidden. But the second you decide you can trust him I demand to meet him.”</p><p class="p1">“I suppose I can agree with those terms.” There’s a long moment of quiet between them. It’s not tense, or uncomfortable, or heavy the way it used to be. Things seem to get easier for her everyday.</p><p class="p1">“Do you think you’ll ever fall in love with him?” Geralt coughs, taken by surprise mid bite, and shakes his head. Jaskier is… easy to like. The lack of fear, the sweet scent of him, the comfortable way Jaskier speaks to him. The memory of Jaskier smacking his hand, unafraid, sits in his belly strangely. It’s uncomfortable how Jaskier treats him like an old friend, like any ordinary man. It’s confusing at best and downright dangerous at worst.</p><p class="p1">“No, Ciri. I don’t think so.”</p><p class="p1">“But! You’re married, you should love your husband.” Ciri says it like it’s obvious, like it’s as easy as that.</p><p class="p1">“It’s a political marriage, Ciri. I did it so we can avoid another war.” Ciri glares at him for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“Mom got to marry someone <em>she</em> loved.” Geralt sighs at that, pressing his lips into a thin line. His mind floods with a hundred things he can say but he doesn’t know which ones are the right ones. When he does finally answer her, he does it slowly, trying to keep his voice from straying into something patronizing. Talking about Pavetta could lead to tears or screams so it was a subject that inspired more anxiety than facing down an army of kikimore.</p><p class="p1">“Your mother was very lucky to find someone she loved. She fought for their marriage, tooth and nail.” Ciri softens at that, and it seems like the right thing to say. She’s staring at her food, clearly trying to decide if she’ll say something more and Geralt watches her, anxious, waiting. </p><p class="p1">She looks so much like Pavetta, Geralt wishes he owned a single painting of her. Ciri was so young when they died, does she even remember her mother?</p><p class="p1">Eventually something ends the battle in Ciri’s mind and her shoulders slump. Relief floods through Geralt and he thinks he might finally be getting better at this. Only took like twelve years. It’s possible that her own mind has turned down the same road his has.</p><p class="p1">Geralt isn’t a man who has ever cared for destiny, if she is anything more than a comforting lie for lesser men then she is nothing short of cruel. But, even still, Pavetta had been nothing short of a blessing. Insistent, stubborn, and wild. Ciri however was nothing short of a miracle. Truly her mother’s child, but twice as strong, and somehow even more stubborn and willful. And <em>fierce</em>. She was going to be great, no matter what path she chose to follow. Geralt has insured that she have as many paths open to her as possible.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier has spent his morning creating three piles from the clothes packed away in the boxes. The first pile consists of things he’ll wear in his own skin, the second he’ll wear in Dimmy’s skin, and the third pile he’s going to have burned. Though he’s still considering separating that pile into ‘to donate’ and ‘to burn’ sections but there was little point in saving three things.</p><p class="p1">Thankfully Dimmy had thought to stash a few of his own things inbetween the layers of hers. He doesn’t have any shoes but that doesn’t bother him too much. He’s always been a partial to going around barefoot anyway, and now he has a good enough excuse for it despite the cool stone.</p><p class="p1">Yennefer didn’t seem to even notice his change in gender, but he supposes that Geralt has no reason to hide the truth of his identity in his own Keep. Jaskier had daydreamed of switching back and forth, all the interesting situations he could get himself in, all the different ways he could stir up trouble. Well, he wasn’t attached to the idea, it had no real effect on his plans.</p><p class="p1">The lock on the door is easily picked. It’s mildly insulting that they would lock him in, but it’s not something that’s a problem until it’s A Problem. He’d learned a long time ago to learn how to pick all types of locks. He has always been insatiably curious and he’s been informed that his morals seem to be a little too pliable. Jaskier smiles as he closes the door behind him, leaving his lock picking set behind. No need to cause too much trouble on his first day.</p><p class="p1">He wanders the halls, trying to piece together the route he’d been half carried down last night, peeking into open doors and trying to get a feeling for the general shape of the Keep. It isn’t anything as modern or grand as the castles he’s spent his time in, there don’t seem to be many torches along the halls, or tapestries to keep the cold out, or gilded extravagancies, but there is plenty of sunlight and the rooms all have a clear purpose to serve. Witchers are everywhere, wandering around on their own errands and for the most part he’s ignored. Sometimes he sees a servant and they consider him curiously as they pass but don’t have anything to say. He must look quite out of place, being on the lithe side and missing the canvas of scars that many of inhabitants here seem to wear.</p><p class="p1">Eventually he finds his way back into the dining hall.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, thank Melitele.” Jaskier mumbles under his breath. One of the long tables has been set with an absolute plethora of food. His stomach is empty, that dress had been so tight he couldn’t have eaten even half of what he’s usually capable, and he’d barely been allowed anything for breakfast. Well, now that he thinks about it, that’s probably why he’d gotten so quickly and spectacularly drunk last night.</p><p class="p1">More than half of what’s been prepared as already been eaten. Loaves of bread have been ripped into halves, a basket of berries knocked over spilling color over the dark wood, and everything made available is meant to be eaten either cold or at room temperature. It seems that breakfast is an informal affair and isn’t that just lovely? Jaskier picks up one of the platters that only has a few slices of cured meats on it and begins to pile it up with more food. He’s going to eat so much they’ll have to roll him out of here.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier?” Jaskier doesn’t jump but it’s a close thing. He turns to see Eskel parting ways with a small group of witchers who looked to be leaving, walking straight for him, <em>shirtless</em>. If he’s surprised by Jaskier’s new appearance he certainly doesn’t make it apparent. Jaskier pouts.</p><p class="p1">“It doesn’t seem to be very difficult for people to recognize me without my tits. Is there any point in even trying to keep up the lie?” Eskel huffs with one silent chuckle and shakes his head. Now that he’s closer Jaskier can see he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It helps to quell his desire to touch, all those scars, all that skin, in the sunlight it is a very tempting display.</p><p class="p1">“No point at all, I’m afraid.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, turning back to his plate.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Witchers</em>. I mean, I knew I’d get caught quickly, but I thought I’d at least have <em>a</em> day.” Eskel follows him as he makes his way down the table, making certain that he’s gotten a little bit of everything this spread has to offer. At least he won’t have to make due with cold porridge and hard bread. “Are you going to be joining me for breakfast?” Eskel hasn’t picked up a plate or a picked up a single morsel of food so Jaskier knows he’s not eating with him. He asks because he wants to see if Eskel will admit to acting as his babysitter for the day.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve already eaten but it would be bad form to have the Queen eating alone on her first day in the Keep.” Jaskier laughs at that. He’s been called ‘princess’ a few times, but he likes the upgrade in rank all the same. Especially the way Eskel says it, teasingly and friendly. Jaskier follows Eskel as he leads them to a table.</p><p class="p1">“Did you sleep well?” Eskel glances up at him with a flash of humor and Jaskier groans as he falls into his seat on the bench.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, did I make a fool of myself? That dress was so tight I could barely eat anything and the wine went straight to my blood.” He points his fork at Eskel to make what he’s about to say sound much more plausible. “I’m usually <em>much</em> more capable of handling my wine.” Eskel chuckles as he leans away from Jaskier’s fork, and it’s interesting to see how one witcher compares to the other. Geralt doesn’t seem to ever smile without trying to bite it back, but Eskel laughs with ease. Jaskier feels a pang of anxiety in his stomach at the thought of Geralt. He’s fairly certain that he’d demanded to be carried to bed bridal style at one point.</p><p class="p1">“No, no. Not a fool. It was rather amusing though.” Jaskier glares at him for a moment but chooses not to ask. He has a flash of a memory of snuggling into Eskel’s arm and drifting off to sleep and he’s not certain he wants to know what happened after that. He tends to get handsier the deeper he falls into a bottle. Eskel merely smirks and they fall into a comfortable silence as Jaskier continues with his meal and people watches. Silence in the Keep seems the normal, there’s none of the tension in their silences that would be present with others. It’s strange, Jaskier is usually desperate to fill in a moment of peace, humming or plucking his lute strings or just jabbering away. He doesn’t feel that nervous need here, though. Perhaps it’s less of a character flaw than he thought and merely a symptom of his environment. What an interesting thought.</p><p class="p1">Witchers walk in and out, almost lazily, some of them choosing to eat the the tables, others carrying their food out. The dining hall isn’t small by any means and it’s strange for it to feel so empty when it had looked so packed last night. The Keep must be huge to hide all of them so easily. It shouldn’t surprise Jaskier but it looks to be very common for witchers to walk around half naked like Eskel, comfortable and relaxed. It’s certainly more relaxed than he’d expected, but he isn’t one to complain. There is the occasional murmur of conversation, but for the most part the only sound is the thunk of boots, shuffle of clothing, and clinking of plates.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel, what do witchers do here all day?” Eskel raises an eyebrow, taking his time to form a response that will be appropriate for him. Jaskier is a smart man, he expects the answer to be sparse, but any information is more than no information and he’s never been known to maintain a silence. Even if that silence is more comfortable than he’s ever felt before.</p><p class="p1">“We train, we learn, we heal. Many of the witchers you see come and go as they please. It depends, whatever they want to do we find a place for them.” Jaskier nods along, wondering what jobs there are here to be filled. They seem to operate more like an army outpost than they do a noble court. Of course, that may be why the North insists on calling him a Warlord, and not a King. Even now, despite his recent marriage and the accompanying claim to the throne of Redania, they’ll never call him a King. There are a few people that would have to die before Geralt would be able to make his rightful claim, but Jaskier wonders if Geralt would be interested in staking it even then.</p><p class="p1">“No wonder the North is so scared of your policies. No King has ever lived so bare bones.” Eskel looks confused by that, taken a little aback.</p><p class="p1">“Why would that make the North scared?”</p><p class="p1">“Well, look at Redania for example. Almost all of our riches come directly from farmers, we’re the granary of the Continent, and yet we treat our peasantry worse than in any of the other four kingdoms.” Jaskier pops the last of his jam covered bread in his mouth and talks around it. It earns him a reproachful look from Eskel but otherwise he seems interested in what Jaskier has to say. “When rumors began to spread about how the Wolf directed his profits it sparked some of the strongest rebellions we’ve ever seen, several of them. The monarchy is desperate to regain it’s power, I think it was the first time in a long, long time that any king of Redania has been reminded of the danger their peasantry can become once united. Even to this day the Redanian Secret Service has directed most of their time and resources into quashing rebellions.”</p><p class="p1">“And how does Redania know where we direct our funds?” Jaskier levels Eskel with a look that says ‘<em>oh, c’mon</em>’.</p><p class="p1">“It’s obvious. Your lands have flourished, lands that have traditionally produced few crops, and little goods. The second the peasantry is fed and safe they produce twice what they could before, but that would mean less luxury for nobility. So, they fear you.” Eskel seems impressed, listening to Jaskier as if none of this was known news, which, <em>strange</em>. It seemed rather obvious to Jaskier, or anyone in Redania. “There’s a reason why all the Northern Kingdoms came together and decided that it was in their best interest to establish peace rather than try to spur their people to war. The North may think you’re monsters, but you’re monsters who take good care of your people. That’s dangerous for a whole number of reasons for a kingdom like Redania.”</p><p class="p1">“Are you implying that we’re the ones with the advantage in these upcoming peace talks?” Eskel’s forearms are resting on the table, crossed in front of him as he leans forward just a little. He hasn’t rolled his eyes once as Jaskier spoke and it’s almost novel the way he’s allowed to talk politics with a high ranking political figure and still be taken seriously. It’s not often that people listen to what he says. <em>Good</em>. Maybe they really will be able to avoid a war.</p><p class="p1">“More of an advantage than they’d like, yeah. You’re entering into peace talks with the four largest and most powerful kingdoms in the continent. That’s quite a feat to accomplish when you haven’t gone to war with a single one of them.” Jaskier rolls up the last of his cured ham and pops it into his mouth despite how full he is, just because he can. Seriously, how does any woman not starve wearing their corsets that tight?</p><p class="p1">“So we’ve inspired the peasantry into rebellion?” Eskel really does seem floored by that information.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the Wolf’s right hand aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be at least somewhat aware of what’s going on in the North? These rebellions are old news, they’d been quelled and controlled since before I was born. The peasantry is angry and this is the most hated monarchy in Redania’s history. That seems like the type of thing you should be aware of, especially since you’re entering into peace talks.” Jaskier gets the feeling that if his father were to find out what he’s saying he’d be livid enough to actually disown him this time, maybe even have him thrown in a cell for treason. Plenty of Redanians have been sentenced to their deaths for much lesser crimes than this. Still, it’s painfully easy news to obtain, and Redania is operating under the idea that the Wolf already knows this information.</p><p class="p1">Eskel looks more bothered than he does offended by Jaskier’s insinuation that he’s not doing his job to the fullest of expectation and that’s just another major stroke of luck. Anyone else would have demanded he beg for forgiveness for such brazen talk. Jaskier’s tongue always did have a way of getting ahead of his brain.</p><p class="p1">“You certainly have an interesting perspective, Jaskier.” Eskel stands up and Jaskier feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t want to have insulted the one friendly face he’s seen in this Keep. “I’m headed to the baths if you’d like to come.” Jaskier smiles, all of his earlier unease gone as if it’d never been there at all.</p><p class="p1">“Is this truly an offer to join you, or are you my babysitter for the day?” Jaskier says it like a joke, and for the most part it is, he’s not offended. There’s very little reason he should be trusted, he’s done nothing to earn it. He knows he’s in an admittedly perfect position to spy. Eskel doesn’t say anything but he does shrug his shoulders in silent acquiescence.</p><p class="p1">“Better be some bath, Eskel.” Jaskier stands to follow him, but it’s strange. He has a chaperone, and he’s being monitored, but they haven’t locked him away in a cell, or in his rooms despite their mistrust of him. Jaskier wouldn’t have come here if he thought he’d be in any real trouble, but it’s still a surprise that he’s being treated with more dignity than any other noble would have afforded him. Despite the fact that he’d never believed even half the rumors he’s hard about the witchers.</p><p class="p1">They walk in silence for the most part and Jaskier tries to add their steps to his mental map. Eventually reaching a wide door, almost as wide as the entire wall, opening up to a long staircase. About halfway down it changes from a stone staircase to one seemingly carved into the very floor. It looks like they’re descending into a cave. As they descend the sound of running water becomes louder, and the air gets thicker with moisture and heat, and Jaskier gets more and more excited to see these baths.</p><p class="p1">He gasps when he’s low enough to see just exactly where Eskel has brought him. A natural hot spring, bubbling and steaming and flowing into several different pools. He smacks at the general direction of Eskel’s arm until he manages to catch a hold of his sleeve and wraps his fingers around Eskel’s bicep. It’s quite large, and he can feel an astonishing amount of muscle. It’s enough to distract his attention from the hot spring but only for a moment. It’s been a long time since Jaskier’s bedded a man who could throw him around with ease and this is the first moment he’s touched Eskel without the weight of anxiety on his shoulders. He smiles and curls into Eskel’s side.</p><p class="p1">“<em>These</em> are the fucking baths here?” Eskel turns to Jaskier and he looks a little confused for a moment before smiling. Jaskier has made up his mind, he’s going to fuck him.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon, stow away. I’ll walk you through it.” Eskel finishes leading him down the stairs without trying to free his arm from Jaskier’s grasp. There are shelves carved into the stone of the cave holding towels and washcloths, next to that are more shelves stocked with soaps.</p><p class="p1">“The ones at the top are the fancier ones for anyone who likes to smell of something delicate. There’s a mage here who likes to spend her free time making soaps. They’re pretty hit or miss, but she doesn’t make them smell so strong the entire room’s full of sneezing witchers anymore.”</p><p class="p1">There are benches all over the place, filled with people, of all genders, in all states of dress.</p><p class="p1">“Hope you’re not modest, we don’t tend to bother with it here.”</p><p class="p1">Hundreds of candles are burning away on higher ledges, with such a subtle scent that Jaskier doesn’t think he would have smelled the comforting scent of sage if there weren’t just so many of them. It bathes the room in a gentle light, reflecting on the water in a way that makes it feel almost like a dream. It’s glorious.</p><p class="p1">“Laundry’s usually about two days behind.” Eskel’s pointed out the large bags of laundry collected on the opposite side of the stairs. “Usually we’re asked to put our names in a specific area so they don’t get lost in the mess but I have a feeling none of your clothes are going to be mistaken for someone else’s.” Jaskier smirks, Eskel’s right about that. He’s always been a fan of the more impossible to ignore items.</p><p class="p1">“And there’s three pools here.” Jaskier follows Eskel’s finger as he points to each pool individually. “That one is nearly boiling, probably want to avoid it. Us witchers, though, absolutely love it. The middle one will be hot, but not too much for you to handle. The last one here is warm, good for when you want to spend a long time in the water without passing out.”</p><p class="p1">Eskel grabs their towels and commandeers a bench for their things while Jaskier takes his time smelling the different soaps. There aren’t a wide selection of them and they’re all very subtly scented, but he finds a lemon and rosemary one that still has chunks of the peel and sprigs of the herb in it to provide some exfoliation. He usually goes for things more extravagant, and floral, but he’s thankful not to be stuck with a floral scent now. There aren’t any screens to undress behind but Jaskier’s never been a modest man before, no point in pretending to be now.</p><p class="p1">“Do you not own shoes, Jaskier?” Jaskier loosely folds his shirt and plops it onto the bench next to Eskel’s clothes. He doesn’t intrude too much on Eskel’s modesty, his morals may be pliant but he does still have them. No need to leer at a man when he knows he’ll be given permission to look his fill sooner or later.</p><p class="p1">“I used to, but it seems that Dimmy forgot to pack any of them for me and I arrived wearing these awful heels.” He watches Eskel walk away to the pool, not bothering to raise his voice because he knows that Eskel can still hear him despite the distance. “Have you ever tried to walk in them, Eskel? Absolute nightmare, it’s a complete mystery that I managed the entire walk down the isle without falling flat on my face.” Jaskier sinks into the water close to Eskel and lets out a soft moan.</p><p class="p1">It is divine.</p><p class="p1">“Oh sweet Melitele’s gentle bosom. Eskel, I don’t know if you’ll ever be rid of me now.” Jaskier closes his eyes and relaxes into the water, sliding under the surface. The heat surrounding him is immediately relaxing. He runs his fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and he thinks that if he’d ever gained the ability to breathe underwater then he would simply live here. When he comes up he takes in a deep breath and slicks his hair back to keep from dripping down his face.</p><p class="p1">“It is a very good thing Dimmy isn’t the one here, there isn’t a nobleborn woman alive who would be able to enjoy these baths as much as I am right now.” He glances over at Eskel who looks just as relaxed as Jaskier feels. He’s got one arm stretched out over the lip of the pool and another bent at the elbow to hold his head up. His eyes are closed and he seems truly relaxed. Jaskier smiles, he really is quite handsome, scars and all.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can hear the comforting murmur of conversation under the loud sound of the water and he allows this silence to stretch. Everyone here looks just as relaxed as Eskel does, comfortable in their various states of nudity despite the mixing of genders. It’s so close to one of Jaskier’s very favorite fantasies that he’s worried that the combination of warm heat, running water, the gentle scraping of his soap on his skin, and Eskel’s comforting presence will make him far too excited. There have to have been people who’ve fucked in these baths, it can’t possibly be an uncommon occurrence.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier.” Eskel’s voice is quiet and when Jaskier looks over to him he’s still laid back, eyes closed.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah?”</p><p class="p1">“Why are you really here?” Jaskier smiles and tries to push his more exciting thoughts to the back of his mind.</p><p class="p1">“I’m a bard by trade. I agreed to help Dimmy out because I thought if I spent a few months here I’d be able to get some great material for my next few song cycles. I want to learn about the witchers, write your stories.” Eskel opens his eyes to stare at Jaskier and he seems very confused.</p><p class="p1">“Why would you be interested in our stories?”</p><p class="p1">“What story could possibly be more interesting? Especially now, with all of Redania desperate for news of witchers due to the marriage connecting our two lands.” The look on Eskel’s face is, well it’s complicated. He looks like he’s still confused, but now he seems to think that Jaskier’s gone and grown a third eye, too. Surely he’s not the only bard to try and use the witchers’ life experiences to garner a bit of fame for themselves? This can’t possibly be as strange as all that.</p><p class="p1">“It’s a noble goal, Jaskier, but I don’t think it will bring you the fame you seem to think it will.” Eskel looks wistful, almost like he’s pitying Jaskier, before he relaxes back into his position and closes his eyes.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” He looks up to see Yennefer waiting in a doorway that feeds into the hall, waiting for him to catch up with her. He expects her to fall into step next to him so he doesn’t slow his pace as he approaches her.</p><p class="p1">“Yen.” She waits until he is right next to her to loop her arm around his but she doesn’t follow his direction. Instead as she touches him she takes a step in the opposite direction, away from the baths, and Geralt quickly changes his course so as not to yank her back. He’s covered in sweat from training, and his shirt is wrapped around his neck like a towel, and he was really looking forward to a fucking bath.</p><p class="p1">And yet, Geralt allows her to pull him along, trusting anyone behind him to move out of his path, Yen certainly isn’t going to warn him if she happens to be dragging him into an obstacle.</p><p class="p1">“How convenient to run into you. I’m on my way to pick up Ciri for her lessons.” Geralt knows this isn’t a happy accident. Yen doesn’t do anything unless there’s a reason for it. Sure, that reason is sometimes as simple as ‘to see if she can’ but it’s still a reason and at this point he’s come to trust her reasoning.</p><p class="p1">“At least allow me a moment to turn around so I’m not walking backwards down a flight of stairs.” Yen smirks and Geralt’s worried he might have to try his hand at walking backwards down a fucking flight of stairs, but she does ultimately decide to release him. It could have also been because he’s still covered in sweat though, so he’s at least lucky in that regard.</p><p class="p1">“I spoke to Jaskier. He seems to be handling it well. I warned him not to expect too much from my research.” Geralt nods. He hopes that Yen was nice to him, he forgets sometimes that other people can’t see the subtleties of her expression as easily as he can now. Or course, it could be as simple as Yen not hiding herself from Geralt as much as she once did as well.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, Yen. I appreciate it.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, it’s quite the challenge, being tasked with breaking a fae curse.” Geralt doesn’t know what he should say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. The silence he creates is embraced by Yen and they walk side by sode down the halls, getting ever closer to his rooms.</p><p class="p1">“Surely you didn’t deny me my bath just because you wanted to tell me that?” Geralt can see on her face that he’s right, she does have more to say. He can tell by the tightness in her shoulders that she’s working up to it. Geralt tries to find for her the same patience he’s found for Ciri.</p><p class="p1">“You need to be careful with him, Geralt. We don’t know why he’s here and he’s from Redania. They have a strong cultural fealty to their King.” She’s keeping her expression neutral but her tone is serious. She’s worried for him. Geralt wonders for a moment if he should tell her that he’s a Viscount as well, nobleborn himself. It probably wouldn’t settle well, and it’s not really his business to tell, so he bites his tongue.</p><p class="p1">“Hm.” Geralt’s trying not to scowl out of respect for Yen, but he knows he’s doing a poor job.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t forget, Geralt,” she takes a quick step and spins so she’s facing him, stopping them in the middle of the hall. “I know much more,” Yen’s smile turns hot, knowing, and just that little bit of terrifying that was always such a weak spot for Geralt. He can’t help but smile back, bemused and curious, tilting his head to the side, as she reaches for his wrists. Yen holds them in her grip like shackles, slowly tightening her grip until her knuckles go almost white, “than you like to pretend I do.” Geralt tries to ignore the familiar curl of lust blooming in his belly, but he does understand the point she’s trying to make. He arches an eyebrow at her but makes no attempt to remove his hands. It’s been a long time since Yen has touched him like this, and it’s still good, so he revels in it a little.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Yen.” Of course he does, and Yen knows this because she smirks before releasing him and returning to her place by his side. Yennefer has always been able to pluck the truth from his mind, no need to bother with majicks. She knows him far too well. It’s a comfort, except for times like now when she uses it against him.</p><p class="p1">“You need to think about keeping him locked away until these peace talks are finished. We can’t risk letting him walk around the Keep, learning our secrets and selling them away to the highest bidder.” Geralt grimaces. It doesn’t sit well in his gut, treating Jaskier like a prisoner.</p><p class="p1">“You spoke to him this morning, do you really think he’s here to spy?”</p><p class="p1">“He’s in the perfect position for a spy, Geralt.” She turns to meet his eyes, looking serious. “And he wouldn’t be the first one that’s tried to weasel his way into the Keep.” It’s a good warning, but with Yen it’s as much about what she doesn’t say as it is about what she does. It can get tiring but he’s had years to learn how to read between her lines. Yen pauses next to the door so that Geralt will open it for her, but when he reaches out for the doorknob she grabs his wrist again. He turns to look at her, a little amused, but her expression is a splash of cold water. She looks almost apologetic.</p><p class="p1">“The majick in him is weak.” She’s whispering, low enough that Ciri wouldn’t be able to hear it in passing and get interested enough to lean in. She’s nowhere near the door, but Geralt doesn’t want to interrupt Yen to say so. “There’s a possibility that it can start to unravel, trying to escape back to where it was pulled from.” Geralt grinds his teeth, <em>of course</em>. It’s never easy.</p><p class="p1">“What does that mean?”</p><p class="p1">“It could rip him apart. There’s a million different ways it can seep out so there’s nothing specific to look for. He’ll be able to tell us if it starts happening, though. He’ll feel it.”</p><p class="p1">“Is there anything you can do about it?” Geralt’s trying really hard not to sound pissed because it’s not Yen’s fault that Jaskier’s been drugged with shit majick that’s going to pop him like a balloon, but it’s a close thing. She lifts an eyebrow, just a hair, but she doesn’t sound upset when she answers.</p><p class="p1">“I could reinforce the majick, try and recharge it.” Geralt’s scowl turns into a snarl but he bites back any sound, trying not to attract Ciri’s attention. He can hear her heartbeat, far from the door, steady, and the scratching of her quill.</p><p class="p1">“That’s <em>not</em> an option.” Geralt knows that Yen already knew it wasn’t, so she only said it to see how he’d react. He looks away to where his hand is still grasping the doorknob and tries to steady his breathing. It’s a little embarrassing, having such a strong reaction, and he thinks that Yen might have been more right then he’d given her credit for earlier. </p><p class="p1">“It’s part of what I’m researching, Geralt.” Geralt nods, no longer trusting himself to continue this conversation. He’s never pretended to understand majick beyond what he’s been taught to use as a witcher and he isn’t going to bother trying now. If Yen says the majick is weak and that means Jaskier is in danger then he trusts her to know what she’s talking about. He tucks his head down, huffs, and relaxes his shoulders intentionally to try and force himself into letting go of the tension there. It works some.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you.” Geralt opens the door without looking at her. Her hand drops from his wrist the second he’s twisted the knob and he can see Ciri sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. She’s scribbling away with a couple of books open around her, the fire illuminating the room along with a few candles. They’re underground now, no sunlight here.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri, Yen’s here.” He walks in, tossing his shirt on a chair. Yen stays in the doorway, leaned against it, hip jutting out to the side, arms crossed. Whatever emotion she felt by their conversation outside the door is cleaned away from her face. She smiles and waves her fingers at Ciri in a silent hello. Ciri smiles before returning to her books.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, just let me finish this sentence and I’ll be ready.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know why you’ve gotten yourself into this mess, Geralt. We could easily win this war you’re working so hard to avoid.” Yen’s right and she knows she’s right, but Geralt still sighs, frowning. He focuses on not overfilling a glass with water as he answers her.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe, but the point is that we don’t<em> have to </em>anymore.”</p><p class="p1">“Okay! I’m ready.” Ciri gets up, leaving her books on the floor, and picks up her bag. “Bye, Uncle Geralt!” She’s still fiddling with the straps of her bag so the hug is little more than her pressing into his side. He puts his hand on her head and presses her in a little closer, just for a moment, before letting her go on her way. It’s not the most affectionate action but, then again, witchers aren’t known for their affection.</p><p class="p1">“Fatherhood has made you soft, Geralt.” Yen means it but she’s smiling so he doesn’t feel compelled to respond to it. “I locked him in his rooms. Should buy you some time to make a decision about what you’re going to do. Might want to have some food sent to him.” Yen’s smile is downright smug now and she puts her hand on Ciri’s shoulder. Geralt listens to Ciri chattering away about what they’re going to be learning today as they walk down the hall.</p><p class="p1">Well, if Jaskier is locked up for the morning at least he has some time to think about what he’s going to do without feeling guilty about it. After all, it wasn’t his idea to imprison him in his rooms for the day.</p><p class="p1">Geralt falls into the chair closest to the fire and looks around the room. He’s been in these rooms for nearly eight years now but he still hasn’t left much of a mark. The furniture is still everything Pavetta and Duny had picked out, all hints of someone living here are left behind by Ciri. She’d made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t going to leave the rooms her and her parents wintered in, but she’d also demanded that Geralt remain close, terrified by the thought that she’d loose another parent if she didn’t keep him in her sight. She called him uncle, but he’d been treated as a third parent by everyone. One of the many ways Pavetta shocked and surprised and refused to bend to the will of what was expected of her. She was a bright fire and he’d do anything he could to ensure that Ciri carried that same burning passion.</p><p class="p1">He can’t lead his people into another war. He can’t sit before Ciri and tell her someone else she’s loved has died. She’s only twelve and she’s lost so many already. He’s worked hard, he’s carved out a life for his people, his pack. He can’t risk it all for one silly, little bard, no matter how much he finds himself drawn to him. Geralt sits down, scowling, and watches the fire burn. It still doesn’t feel right, imprisoning him.</p><p class="p1">There must be something he can think of.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A day early folks! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Let me know how you're liking the story so far!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Geralt is walking down the halls that will lead him to his office when Eskel falls into step beside him, bumping his shoulder, and smelling of the soaps that one of the mages likes to make in her spare time. Geralt frowns, he still hasn’t been able to make his own trip to the pools and it smells like he’d used one of the lemon ones. Geralt’s always liked that one.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel.”</p><p class="p1">“Geralt. I have news.” Geralt glances over at his brother as he waves his hand. He’s got a stack of letters tied together with twine and thankfully it doesn’t look too thick this time. He’s been too busy to open up the letters from last week and he hates it when they get backed up. It eats into time he’d rather spend doing anything else. When Eskel makes no move to hand Geralt the letters he knows this is more than a simple delivery.</p><p class="p1">Once Geralt opens the door Eskel slips in, immediately making himself comfortable on the couch, tossing the letters onto his desk with little care. Geralt closes the door and smacks at Eskel’s ankles where he’s decided to, once again, put his feet on his coffee table.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon, Eskel. I eat there.” Geralt plops down in his chair and tries to decide if he should open last week’s letters first or not. It is almost twice the thickness and they’ve waited this long already. </p><p class="p1">“Yeah, but you really shouldn’t. I put my feet here all the time.” Geralt shoots him a tired glare, but there’s no heat behind it. He eventually just picks a pile at random and begins to untie the strings holding them together. “I caught Jaskier in the halls this morning, after training.” Geralt tosses his letters back to the table angrily, scattering them, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the familiar throb of a headache at his temples.</p><p class="p1">“Of course the fucking bard is also a lockpick.” Eskel shrugs, looking far too amused. Geralt picks up a letter and throws it at Eskel because that smile is entirely inappropriate for the situation they’ve found themselves in. Dammit, he was supposed to have all day to sort this out. At least it’s funny when the letter hits Eskel upside the head, falling to rest against his thigh with a dent on the corner. Eskel’s little almost-pout soothes the frustration some.</p><p class="p1">“I dropped him off with Triss to put him to work until I could find you.” Eskel picks up the letter and tosses it onto the desk as he says it. Well, figuring out what to do with Jaskier just went from a ‘think about it’ problem straight to a ‘fix this now’ problem.</p><p class="p1">“Triss is a good idea. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the extra help, she really hates it when it’s her turn to replenish the stores.” Geralt can see the way his praise warms Eskel, makes him relax into his sprawled out pose just a little bit more. He’d been worried. Geralt clenches his jaw, uncomfortable that his problems keep becoming Eskel’s, too.</p><p class="p1">“Wanna know something really weird about your new husband?” Geralt frowns at the title but ignores it. That’s a problem he doesn’t want to deal with ever. He returns his attention to his packet of letters, ignoring the ones that he’d thrown everywhere to open the newer packet.</p><p class="p1">“Not really.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m pretty sure he wants to fuck me?” Geralt looks up at Eskel at that. He’s met Jaskier, he’s seen the way the bard presents himself, but still. It’s been one day. It takes Geralt a long time to put his thoughts together.</p><p class="p1">“It seems that Jaskier’s sense of self preservation is completely nonexistent.” Eskel laughs, nodding in agreement. Geralt ignores the way his stomach clenches, the new tension in his shoulders. He’d made it clear to Jaskier that he would not be treated as property, as something Geralt owned, so he ignores the twinge of jealousy. He has nothing to be jealous of.</p><p class="p1">“So?” Geralt knows where this is headed and he is in no mood to entertain it.</p><p class="p1">“No.” Eskel sighs like he’s been having this conversation for an hour and he’s tiring of the circles they’re going in. Geralt rolls his shoulders, trying to expel the tension before it has a chance to fully settle and the throb in his temple returns.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the first witcher in known history to get married.” Eskel’s talking to him like he’s feral, trying to keep his tone soothing. It puts Geralt on edge, makes him grind his teeth. “Sure, there may have been some quiet ones, but there’s no way to be sure. There’s no moment in history being defined by a witcher marrying.” Geralt shoots Eskel another glare, but Eskel meets his gaze head on, unrelenting.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier can do as he wishes. I’m not interested in maintaining a marriage in any way other than title.” Eskel rolls his eyes and goes to say something else but Geralt cuts him off before he can even take the breath. “I was married to Dalimira, not Jaskier. He is a free man.” Eskel levels him with a tired slump of the shoulders and set of the jaw that screams ‘<em>are you fucking serious right now?</em>’ </p><p class="p1">“You and I both know that it may be recorded as Dalimira, but it was Jaskier’s hand you were bound to. These ceremonies aren’t just more human bullshit, Geralt, there’s power in a handfasting.” Geralt looks away from Eskel, focusing his attention on the letters and refusing to respond. He knew what he was agreeing to when the Northern Kingdoms insisted on a marriage before they agreed to enter into peace talks. He knows the consequences of the ceremony they’d demanded he participate in. He doesn’t need Eskel to remind him.</p><p class="p1">“At the very least, you need to talk to Jaskier. The entire Keep is going to treat him like your husband, regardless of whether or not you ever do.” Geralt grinds his teeth and tries to push down the anger beginning to rise in his stomach. “He has the right to know that-,”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Eskel</em>.” Eskel doesn’t glare, but his eyes hold the same heat as Geralt’s do. Geralt holds his gaze, his body taut with his restrained frustration. Eventually Eskel’s shoulders drop and he looks away, working his jaw, head down. The submission helps to ease the tension from Geralt’s shoulders, cooling some of the anger in his belly. They’re quiet for a while, the air tense between them. Geralt feels a twinge of guilt in his gut but not enough to seek an apology. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to have this conversation several times. He knows what people were expecting from his marriage, he knows what they were hoping for, too.</p><p class="p1">He’s got all the letters picked up and sorted into piles when Eskel tries again.</p><p class="p1">“And Dalimira? Do you trust Jaskier’s story?” Well. At least they aren’t talking about his marriage anymore. Geralt still clenches his jaw a few times to release some of the tension before he answers.</p><p class="p1">“It’s something that’s been known to happen before, why not this time? They’re most likely both just stupid kids who didn’t realize they were risking a war breaking out across the Continent.” </p><p class="p1">“It would certainly be the best case scenario.” Geralt nods absentmindedly. He’s thought it before, how much easier this situation would be to handle if it really were something as simple as two dumb kids.</p><p class="p1">“Do you think he’s here to spy?” Geralt glances over at Eskel, curious to see his reaction. He’s busy scratching at his scar again, head tilted to the side, staring at his boots, still on his coffee table.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t think he is. I.” Eskel sighs and turns to Geralt with a look of defeat. “I like him. He’s interesting, he kinda smells like candy, he’s absolutely fearless here.” Eskel looks so confused that it almost makes Geralt smile. Almost. He’s still got a headache blooming. “But. Well. You know. It’s hard to believe him even though it’s so clearly the truth.” Geralt frowns at the new somber tone in Eskel’s voice. It was still a fresh wound for all of them, hanging in the air like a stench they’d all gotten used to.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier is nothing like him.” Geralt admits to that thought too quickly and he would regret it but the way Eskel’s expression relaxes at Geralt’s admission makes it impossible to do so. Maybe he doesn’t have to worry about why he’s so drawn to Jaskier. Jaskier’s just <em>like</em> that, apparently. And, well. Geralt can at least stop worrying about Yen’s little warning from earlier, now. It seems that Jaskier’s attentions have been focused elsewhere. Something about that thought has Geralt glowering at the desk, a bitter taste on his tongue. He brushes it away and picks up a letter in the hopes of actually getting some work done before dinner.</p><p class="p1">“He told me that he helped the princess because he wanted to get into the Keep.” Geralt gives up on the letters and drops his head into his hands. Apparently this conversation about Jaskier is never going to stop.</p><p class="p1">“Are you just Jaskier’s biggest fan now that he’s decided he’s going to fuck you?” Eskel laughs, loud.</p><p class="p1">“Wait until Lambert finds out, he’s going to throw the biggest tantrum yet.” Geralt takes a deep breath. He can feel the beginnings of a growl rumbling in his chest when he lets the breath out slowly. Gods, Lambert, he’d forgotten about fucking Lambert. If Eskel doesn’t fuck him then Lambert definitely will. He rolls his tongue along his teeth, tasting the bitterness he’d been trying to ignore on the back of of tongue. </p><p class="p1">“Geralt, you gotta make a decision about Jaskier sooner or later.” Geralt lets out his breath slowly, and stands up. It seems they’ve finally made it to the ‘fix it now’ portion of this conversation. He walks around to the front of his desk to lean against it and crossing his arms. Sitting down was only making him anxious, and this conversation has lasted long enough.</p><p class="p1">“It doesn’t sit right, locking him up. He hasn’t earned it yet.”</p><p class="p1">“Plus, he’s your husband.” Geralt glances at Eskel to glare at him. He looks far too pleased to bring that back up again.</p><p class="p1">“You, Yen, and I all believe he isn’t here to spy, but he’s too dangerous to allow to just wander around freely. Wait, you mentioned that Jaskier admitted to wanting to get into the Keep?”</p><p class="p1">“He wants to capture our histories in song.”</p><p class="p1">“That has to be a joke.” Eskel tosses his hands into the air, palms up, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“It’s what he said and it’s either the truth or Jaskier’s the best liar I’ve ever met.” Geralt stares at Eskel’s feet, crossed at the ankles, resting on his fucking table, and tries to wrap his head around what he’s just told him.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier gets his hands on one of the most well made glamours Geralt’s ever seen. Then he willingly binds himself to the Warlord of the Southern Lands, someone that the entirety of the Northern Kingdoms believes to be nothing more than a rabid animal moments away from going feral and tearing everyone’s flesh with nothing more than his teeth. And then, because that wasn’t stupid enough, he does all this to weasel his way into Kaer Morhen, the Keep of the witchers, surrounded by dangerous monsters in men’s skin.</p><p class="p1">And he does all that to write a couple of songs?</p><p class="p1">“He’s daft.” Eskel laughs and Geralt can’t help but chuckle along, dropping his head into his palm. There’s no way this was anything more than two dumb kids making a dangerous mistake. “If this is some kind of elaborate lie to secure another spy into the Keep then they’ve fucking earned it.” Eskel shakes his head, smiling, and it looks good on him.</p><p class="p1">“I know you don’t want to hear it Geralt.” Geralt braces himself for whatever Eskel’s about to say next, his expression suddenly sober. Eskel crosses his arms and fidgets some, even taking his feet down from his table. That just makes Geralt truly tense. “But everyone is watching this. It means something.” Eskel looks at him then, and his eyes are so full of raw concern that Geralt has to look away, grinding his teeth.</p><p class="p1">“It’s a shame the first witcher marriage had to be so loveless.”</p><p class="p1">“Eskel.” Geralt drops his shoulders and finds himself incapable of looking at him. He’s had this conversation today already, can’t he be done with this? “I’ve proved a witcher can marry without being struck down by the gods, it’s up to someone else to have a happy one.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">“Oh, gods, this is absolutely vile. How do you do this?” Jaskier looks away from the box Triss has just presented him with, nose pinched shut by his one free hand and desperately looking around for a clear space to drop the box safely. She only laughs at him before going back to…well, jaskier isn’t entirely certain what she’s doing but it seems very majick adjacent.</p><p class="p1">Without much input from her he supposes there’s only two options left to him. He can either get to doing what he’s been asked to do, or he can leave. And it doesn’t really seem like leaving is the best option for him since Eskel dropped him off with very strict instructions to ‘<em>make him useful</em>’. Which, rude. At least Triss was kind enough to offer him a pair of nice leather gloves that are a surprisingly perfect fit. Though, again, that’s probably just more majick.</p><p class="p1">He starts chopping away at the absolutely <em>vile</em> material, dicing it expertly and trying very hard to pretend it’s carrots. He’s never liked carrots so it’s easier to believe that it’s carrots.</p><p class="p1">“So are we making the potions necessary for the witcher trails?” Jaskier asks it in his usual casual air, but he glances up to watch Triss’s reaction carefully. She looks up from her work for just a moment, but if she’s confused by him knowing about that particular bit of trivia she doesn’t show it. Which isn’t a surprise, the fact that witchers are mutated isn’t exactly a secret.</p><p class="p1">“No. You wouldn’t be able to breathe if we were.” Well, that’s a little terrifying, but she says it with a smile so maybe it’s a joke? Jaskier wants to barrel onto the next question, but he decides it will probably be best for him in the long run if he mimics her speech patterns. He bites his tongue and waits, allowing her a moment of quiet to do her work.</p><p class="p1">“Are the trials still as dangerous as they were before? I think I heard someone once say that the survival rate was as low as three out of ten.” Triss straightens up and regards him fully, clearly trying to size him up. He keeps his smile to himself and just continues on with his chopping as if he has no idea that what he’s just said is little known to rest of the Continent. Eventually her stern look is ruined by her smirk. His back straights just slightly, proud. It’s always fun when someone decides they like him and his insatiable need for gossip. It makes getting the gossip <em>so </em>much easier.</p><p class="p1">“And just where are you getting your information stow away?” Jaskier restrains his pout at the nick name as much as he’s physically capable of restraining it, which isn’t much.</p><p class="p1">“And give away my sources? Never.” She smiles for a moment before going back to her work. Pushing her again would probably ruin any progress he’s managed to make thus far so he continues his work and waits. He finishes dicing and takes the bowl Triss hands to him silently, tossing in the first handful. It makes the most grotesque, decidedly un-carrot like wet slapping sound as it lands and Jaskier’s just been put off his lunch. He tries his best to lower in the rest of it quietly.</p><p class="p1">“Come over here and start capping these as I go.” Jaskier jumps at the distraction, slipping the gloves off carefully. He knows enough to know that he’s been given them for a reason other than protecting his delicate skin. Triss has been lovely thus far but he doubts that she’d give a single thought for his moisturizing regime.</p><p class="p1">“So, what was it that drew you to the Keep? I was under the impression that such powerful mages only graced the courts of legitimate nobility.” Jaskier watches as she releases a stopper, letting the thick liquid pour freely as she begins to fill vials. Her hands move quickly, swapping out the full ones for fresh vials, practiced enough that she never spills a single drop. He goes about his assigned task capping them tightly and placing them in neat rows into a crate. If she doesn’t answer this question he’ll merely go down the list until he’s exhausted his mental list, but he knows by now that she’s not going to answer him quickly so he doesn’t worry about the long silence. Not yet at least.</p><p class="p1">“A good friend of mine asked me to. She knew Geralt for some time before and she had some,” Triss shoots him a knowing glance, smirking, an eyebrow raised, “rather entertaining stories to tell.” Oh, Jaskier would very much like to hear those stories one day. Triss shrugs, her hands never faltering in their work.</p><p class="p1">“It seemed like it could be interesting at the very least, I’d grown tired of the courts. Seemed like such a waste after so many years. At least here Geralt’s first priority as King are his people.” Triss lets out a heavy sigh and Jaskier thinks that might be as much as he’ll be getting out of her on that particular subject. He’s beginning to suspect that she’s only capable of three sentence responses to any question. Is everyone here so unwilling to speak because they’re all nervous he might be a spy or are they just naturally tight lipped about everything?</p><p class="p1">“Never met a King like that before.” Triss’s tone is different when he admits to that, gentler. Something about it, and the way she meets his gaze for a moment, makes him feel like she’s not only being honest, but maybe a little vulnerable, too. It helps to settle that wild energy in his bones that makes it impossible for him to shut up. Just a little, but still. He smiles at her, sincere and reassuring, and goes back to his task.</p><p class="p1">Once he’s filled up his crate he picks it up carefully to place it on top of the growing stack of them, everyother crate filled with vials of different colors. Jaskier takes a moment to look at them. They’re fascinating, the way they almost shimmer, the way even he can feel the way there’s majick in those vials, captured. He picks up the empty one from the floor and takes it back to the countertop where Triss has stacked them in a neat row, waiting for him to come back.</p><p class="p1">“Can you feel the majick on me, Triss?” Jaskier asks it without realizing the thought had even occurred to him. That happened from time to time, when he felt too comfortable. His thoughts poured from his lips quicker than it took for his mind to capture them. Now that he’s said it, though, he is insanely curious for her answer. He watches her tilt her head, keeping her eyes on her hands but clearly utterly focused on him. It made him pause, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, like a bug caught under glass.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, I can.” Jaskier waits to see if she’ll follow that up with anything. She doesn’t. When Triss hands him the last vial she turns to face him fully, close, and he waits. She watches his hands silently, her eyes critical. He tries not to fumble his fingers, or drop a vial under her scrutiny.</p><p class="p1">“Cat got your tongue?” Jaskier smiles at her, easy to hide his nerves, terrified that she might tell him he’s got two hours left before the majick chokes him or something equally morbid. Whatever she sees, she keeps it to herself, turning around and puttering about. She picks up jars containing all sorts of things, collecting them around the big bowl full of vile diced not-carrots. Jaskier decides to be quiet and wait for the inevitable shoe to drop. Triss is not a woman who will say something unless she wants to.</p><p class="p1">“So what are you doing in The White Wolf’s Keep, little stow away?” Jaskier frowns at the nick name. It’s starting to seem like that’s the name he’s going to be stuck with around here and it’s not <em>bad</em>, per say, but it’s not nearly as endearing as something like ‘dandelion’ or ‘little lark’. He wonders if there’s anything he can do to direct them closer to something in that direction but he knows it’s a lost battle already. It’s an instant relief, moving away from this conversation.</p><p class="p1">“I spent an entire year researching witchers while I was at Oxenfurt. I even dedicated my first attempt at a song cycle about them. It’s short, but it earned me a spot as top of my class. I should revisit them, some of them were quite good I think.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, I see. So it’s a fetish then.” Jaskier gasps at that, placing his hand on his chest, playing scandalized. He thinks he might have just fallen in love. She’s got a wicked sense of humor and a mischievous glint in her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Now, Lady Triss! No need to sully an innocent academic interest with such filthy implications as ‘<em>fetish</em>’.” She almost laughs at that, eyes sparkling with the silent mirth of it, turning back to her work. One of these days he’ll figure out to make her laugh, loud and unrestrained. He’s certain that it’s a beautiful bell of a laugh.</p><p class="p1">A comfortable silence settles around them and Jaskier wanders around the room, reading the labels of jars, turning them in their resting places to see the way they catch the light. He’s interested, and he worries that he might poison himself by touching something, but he does it anyway. He’s simply never been good at not touching, even when he knows he really shouldn’t.</p><p class="p1">“I found a witcher’s journal, tucked into the shelves of the library. It was ancient, nearly a hundred years old and only half full. There wasn’t a name anywhere, or, rather if there had been it was gone. A few pages had been torn out.” Jaskier glances back at her, to see if she’s even listening. She bowed over her work, but he can tell that she is. He leans onto the counter, on his elbows, and watches her. This way he can be a little more honest, a little quieter, and not feel like he’s telling someone else’s secrets. He hordes secrets, he likes to pull them out and roll them around on his tongue and taste them but giving them away is unthinkable. They’re his. He worked hard to get them and no one will give them if he makes a habit of turning around and passing them out.</p><p class="p1">“The life he led broke my heart.” Triss glances up at him, smiling, warm, almost thankful. It’s just a glance, just a moment, but it’s weird, the way people here seem to be so fucking thankful of him. He hasn’t done anything to be thankful of and it’s really starting to piss him off. He just smiles back and lets the silence fall over them once more, and tucks away all these quiet, thankful smiles and doesn’t let him bother him. Whatever this is he’ll deal with it when it’s time to. Jaskier shrugs even though he doesn’t think she sees him do it and allows the silence to envelop them, watching her work, waiting for his next task. He doesn’t ask for any work because he’s worried that she’ll make him touch something else horrendous but also because she’s proved herself to be the sort who wouldn’t wait until someone offered their services to put them to work.</p><p class="p1">“They aren’t mutating the trainees.” It’s like everything stops for a moment. His mind blanks out, suddenly void of sound and chatter and emotion. He turns to look at her, right into those beautiful green eyes. She’s gorgeous. Dark skinned, freckled, with tight curled brown hair that shines red in the sunlight. She’s watching him, waiting to see what he’ll say and he suddenly knows that whatever he says next will determine how he spends the rest of his time in the Keep. He can feel it, this is an important, precious thing and she’s trusting him with it so he needs to be careful.</p><p class="p1">“Why tell me?” This is a secret that could ruin them. Bring the witchers to their knees, eradicate them from the history books forever. Nothing more than a bad dream, a monster under the bed to make children behave. Triss smiles, proud, like he’s passed the test, and it’s terrifying. He’s starting to suspect the Keep is full of crazy people who just accidentally managed to conquer half the Continent.</p><p class="p1">“The world is changing, Jaskier.” She says it like she’s been here for a thousand years but never once expected this to happen. Like time itself has become something that she can feel on her shoulders and Jaskier supposes that it must. Sorceresses are unchanging. They don’t age, they don’t wrinkle, they live until they are killed. The stories she must have, the things she must know. She must think of humans as little more than an interesting bug whose very movements inspire a curious, amused fascination.</p><p class="p1">Goodbye Eskel, his heart belongs to Triss now, and her peaceful quiet and her soft hands, and all the vile, glistening things she has in jars labeled with a plain hand. Jaskier thinks he could love her for a hundred years and still not know her. She’s infinite in a way he’s never experienced before.</p><p class="p1">A dark figure appears in the doorway and Jaskier’s attention is snapped back to the real world around him, his thoughts scattering to the wind as he turns to see the intruder. Geralt’s standing there, hand raised to knock his curled knuckles on the doorway, looking surprised that he’s been noticed before he had a chance to make himself known. Triss is still focused on her potion making, muttering along without having noticed the sudden tension.</p><p class="p1">Seeing him causes a lot of things to happen to Jaskier. His breath is caught in his lungs for a moment. That horrible weight bears down on him in full force, heavy on his shoulders, warm and electric. His gut clenches with anticipation. He fills absolutely full to the brim with butterflies. And the blasted scent of wildflowers fills the room, so strong that Jaskier worries his lungs might be full of them. This is far stronger than when Yen tested him earlier but he breathes through it and forces on a friendly smile.</p><p class="p1">That little crease inbetween Geralt’s eyebrows is so beautiful and all Jaskier wants to do is reach out with his hand and smooth it away, push his hands into that hair and see if it feels as course as it looks. He should get him something for it, something that smells masculine, like pine or cedar.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Geralt! Hello.” Jaskier tries to make his voice light, conversational, unaffected. Geralt hasn’t even blinked since they made eye contact, Geralt almost looks more uncomfortable by Jaskier than vise versa. Geralt’s mouth pressing into a single line and he looks away and Jaskier worries that he’s made him uncomfortable somehow. Jaskier shifts his weight, suddenly deeply anxious, watching Geralt’s tense posture. It’s not his fault he’s in love with the man. It doesn’t have to be this bloody awkward.</p><p class="p1">“Triss. Can I speak to you for a moment?” His expression is neutral but he looks like he’s dying to run away. Jaskier knows he should look away, but he’s just not capable of it. He wants to see if Geralt will ever look back at him, like he’s playing some kind of twisted passive aggressive version of ‘blink first, you lose’.</p><p class="p1">“Sure. Jaskier?” Jaskier blinks, moving his head just a little towards Triss. She’s just spoken to him, he heard her, but for some reason it doesn’t fully register. He’s distracted. Geralt’s hair looks a little damp and he wonders if he’s recently visited those heavenly baths downstairs. The weight of the curse has eased some, adjusting to Geralt’s presence surprisingly fast. It’s still heavy, and there’s still that wonderful experience of warmth tracing his spine, but Jaskier knows it’s not his own. It feels like a hand touching his skin, nothing natural. Still, he likes the way Geralt looks, likes the way he feels when he has Geralt’s attention.</p><p class="p1">Is that the curse? Can it function so subtly and so obviously at the same time?</p><p class="p1">“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm?” Jaskier manages to tear his eyes away from Geralt to look at Triss, eyebrows up, curious. She’s looking at him like he’s just done something very, very funny and it acts like a glass of cold water poured over his head. He’s just been caught shamelessly ogling the Warlord of the South by one of his trusted mages. He doesn’t feel embarrassed, he’s not certain if he ever has, but it’s similar to it. Sheepish, maybe.</p><p class="p1">“Stir this for me will you? Every fifteenth stir you need to change directions.” He nods and comes to stand beside her, making note of the direction she’s stirring in now. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, okay take it.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt can smell it the moment the curse overwhelms Jaskier, the sudden hit of wildflowers almost enough to make him want to sneeze. It makes him very uncomfortable. The way he’s looking at him, like it’s the first time, makes him feel on display. Vulnerable. He’s leaning against a countertop, ass stuck out, elbows bent, and Geralt can feel Yen’s hands wrapped around his wrists and he’s <em>very</em> uncomfortable.</p><p class="p1">It must be a side effect of the curse how the scent of him blooms, somehow strong enough not to be overtaken by the wildflowers. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but the way the scent of majick interacts with his natural honeyed-citrus scent is actually quite nice. It suits him.</p><p class="p1">“Triss.” Geralt looks away from Jaskier, steeling himself for this conversation. He’d argued with Eskel about who should talk to him but his heart wasn’t in it. He knew he owed it to Jaskier to explain the situation. Still, this would have been much easier for Eskel. “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Triss smiles, and nods.</p><p class="p1">“Sure. Jaskier?” Geralt clenches his jaw and tries not to look back at him. He can feel his stare on him like a physical weight, inspecting. It’s not his fault, he’s <em>cursed</em>. He resists the urge to fidget, keeping his eyes on Triss. He could just leave, circle back to talk to her later, but he’s here now. It would be childish for him to just turn tail and run, no matter how uncomfortable he feels. Especially since he needs to get Jaskier put away before Ciri’s released from Yennefer’s care.</p><p class="p1">Once Triss has finally managed to get Jaskier’s attention Geralt turns his back to Jaskier, staying in the doorway because he knows that Triss wouldn’t want to loose sight of Jaskier. It’s surprising enough that she allowed him to be alone with her work.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel tells me he’s already informed you of who Jaskier is.” Triss nods. She doesn’t turn to watch Jaskier and that’s surprising. Surely even Jaskier can’t be capable of charming Triss in a single afternoon?</p><p class="p1">“Yes, he did, but I already knew. I think the whole Keep will by tomorrow.” It isn’t surprising by now just how quickly news travels around the Keep. Gossipy old grumps, the lot of ’em.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve spent a good few hours with him today, do you think we can trust him?” Geralt keeps his voice low, he doesn’t want Jaskier to hear him. Or Triss for that matter, because he’s fairly certain she’s going to admit to liking him, too. It’s infuriating, how easy it seems to be for Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">“Yes.” Geralt looks at Triss, searching her eyes for any hint of uncertainty. She raises an eyebrow, amused, and he just nods. Jaskier’s just fucking like that.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you.” Triss smiles, wrapping a hand around his forearm, leaning in close to his space.</p><p class="p1">“He’s quite the surprise, isn’t he?” She squeezes his arm before she releases him and walks back into the room. Geralt decides to ignore that little comment, it’s easier and very little still is these days. He watches Jaskier smile at her, stirring the potion a few more times before handing off the spoon. Jaskier leans against the countertop once more, resting his chin on his palm and starts to chew his pinky nail. It can’t be a good habit for a bard to have. Gods, this is going to be a nightmare of a conversation.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier. Come with me?” Jaskier hesitates, eyes wide, mouth hanging open just a little. He glances over to Triss, who isn’t paying attention, before smiling and heading over. Despite his initial hesitance he approaches Geralt with a sincere smile, not a lick of fear about him, walking confidently.</p><p class="p1">He’s surprised when Jaskier loops his arm around Geralt’s the moment he’s close enough. The moment Jaskier’s hands touch him the man gasps, but it’s quiet. It’s not something he would have heard unless he was a witcher. Jaskier’s hands grip him tightly for a moment, but his grip eases quickly.</p><p class="p1">“Well? Are you taking me somewhere?” Geralt stares at Jaskier, unmoving. Wildflowers hang in the air between them, so strong he can taste them. What is it that dictates the strength of the majick? Why does the scent of it ebb and flow?</p><p class="p1">He looks down at where Jaskier’s hands are wrapped around his arm, like how a woman would take the arm of her escort. He’d seen Jaskier take Eskel’s arm in the same manner last night, but he’d also been hiding under the glamour or Dalimira so it made sense. Is this something he just does, grabbing a hold of anyone close enough? So quick and unafraid to touch? Geralt arches an eyebrow but Jaskier just smiles, making no move to release Geralt’s arm.</p><p class="p1">Geralt ‘hm’s and begins walking, unwilling to look at Jaskier any longer but also unwilling to pull his arm free. What is he getting at?</p><p class="p1">“I’m fairly certain the door was locked this morning, Jaskier.” He glances over at the man clung to his arm to see that he’s smiling smugly.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? That was on purpose, then? My apologies, I thought it was merely a clerical error.” Geralt wants to smile at that but he bites it back. He has the distinct feeling that encouraging Jaskier would do no one any favors.</p><p class="p1">“And your first inclination was to pick the lock?”</p><p class="p1">“Old habits?” All the frustration he’d felt when he’d learned that Jaskier was a lockpick escapes him when he sees the playful, unabashed pride on Jaskier’s face. Geralt wonders for a moment just how many rooms Jaskier has found himself locked inside of to need to develop such a habit. It’s not interesting, because it means he’s not trustworthy. His thin, sarcastic apologies aren’t charming and his unabashed pride isn’t funny. It’s dangerous.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s hands are warm and Geralt wonders if it’s the curse that draws his touch so freely. If Eskel is right in his assumptions then why else would Jaskier reach out and touch so boldly?</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, what started this whole Warlord business?” Geralt hesitates. This is certainly a much easier conversation to have, one that he’d much prefer to have. He still isn’t sure how to broach the subject of his curfew, still doesn’t want to have to do this.</p><p class="p1">“Ebbing tried to sack the Keep.” After a moment Jaskier raises his eyebrows and shakes his head in the same way Ciri does when she’s demanding he expound upon his sparse sentences. It makes Geralt smile, just a small one, restrained.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, I see a smile. I think I may yet win the heart of my husband.” Jaskier’s smiling, and his tone is light, and Geralt knows that he is joking, but it still fills him with a strange fear. His whole body tenses up like his fight for flight has been activated and he can tell that Jaskier notices it. He ignores it.</p><p class="p1">“Kaer Morhen is one of three Witchers’ Keeps still standing. Our homes were being taken from us, one by one. And Kaer Morhen had already been attacked once. I couldn’t allow my home to be taken from me.” Jaskier’s hands haven’t left him, despite the way Jaskier seems to have deflated a little, shyer now. Geralt finds that he doesn’t like the look of it on him.</p><p class="p1">“Why did they try to attack?” Geralt glances at Jaskier, bemused, and he wasn’t going to answer because it seems to obvious but Jaskier looks interested. Like he really doesn’t know why someone would want to rid the world of witchers. Geralt doesn’t know why he bothers to be surprised.</p><p class="p1">“Because, Jaskier. We’re witchers and that makes men nervous. We’re strong, we live long lives, and we scare them.” Jaskier scoffs, rolling his eyes, and finally releases his old on him when they reach the stairs.</p><p class="p1">“Well that’s just stupid, isn’t it?” Geralt glances over his shoulder as they climb, eyebrows raised, incredulous. Jaskier rolls his eyes again and huffs.</p><p class="p1">“So you defended the Keep, but that doesn’t explain how you came to the conclusion that you needed to become a Conquerer.” Geralt takes a moment to collect his thoughts. Jaskier is right, it’s an explanation but not the full one. The moment Geralt steps into the hallway he can hear Jaskier taking longer strides to reach him. When Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s he doesn’t bother with surprise. Jaskier’s just like that.</p><p class="p1">“They suffered succession crisis. The longer it went on the bloodier it got, until a few earls who’d opposed the attack to begin with approached the Keep with a small army of their peasantry. They’d come to beg us not to leave the job half finished. Their monarchs were waging war on their own people in the name of power. It.” Jaskier is close, his scent is sweet and his skin is warm and he’s looking up at him with those blue eyes so expectantly that Geralt finds himself very distracted by it all. There’s something in the air, something peppery, and Jaskier’s pupils are a little dilated and his skin smells warm. Geralt ignores it, they’re approaching his rooms and he can no longer procrastinate this.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier,” Geralt slows their walk, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable as they come to a stop. He turns to face Jaskier and the man thankfully lets his hands fall from Geralt’s arm so they can properly face one another. He can see the way Jaskier’s hands shake, but Geralt can’t smell fear, or even the more subtle scent of anxiety. Jaskier crosses his hands behind his back and leans into the wall, body language open and inviting, head tilted to the side just enough to almost tempt, and he watches Geralt expectantly, patiently. Geralt’s mouth feels very dry all of a sudden.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, I’m afraid I’m going to need you to remain in your rooms during the evenings.” Jaskier blinks, surprised, and straightens his posture some. He keeps his hands firmly behind his back, pressed into the stone wall, though. Did he injure himself somehow? Are his hands still shaking? Maybe it has something to do with the curse. In that case it’s not his business unless Jaskier shares it himself. He won’t pry.</p><p class="p1">“Oh. Does that mean I’m free to wander the Keep during the mornings and afternoons?” Geralt’s just told him that he’s little more than a prisoner with a curfew and his immediate reaction is to be hopeful about the free time he is allowed? Jaskier is so confusing, he never reacts how he’s supposed to and it’s really starting to bother him. It’s irritating.</p><p class="p1">“Yes? You’ll be monitored and the second you do something that even smells like treason I won’t hesitate to lock you away.” Jaskier doesn’t look surprised, or annoyed, or scared at all. In fact, he nods, as if he <em>agrees</em>. Geralt crosses his arms, trying to look intimidating, standing up straighter to look down on him. Has Jaskier always been so tall? “But, until then, you’re free.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Geralt. You spoil me.” Jaskier’s flirting. Geralt is fairly certain he’s flirting.<em> He’s fucking daft</em>. It’s the curse. His nose is beginning to numb to the scent of wildflowers, but the warm, peppery scent of him is only getting stronger. The curse is still wrapped around his neck, forcing him to want and to flirt and to touch. It’s not real. He starts to hold hi breaths longer, prevent himself from having to smell Jaskier’s lust.</p><p class="p1">“There’s also the problem of your glamour.” Jaskier doesn’t respond to that for some time, his easy smile falling some at the mention of it.</p><p class="p1">“Well. That’s a little more complicated, isn’t it?” Geralt is surprised to see a familiar expression on Jaskier’s face. It’s the same one Yen wears when she knows she’s got the upper hand and she wants you to know that she knows. It’s a hot smile, a cool stare, and a confident tilt of the jaw. It sparks something familiar and hot in Geralt’s belly and he shifts his weight around, uncomfortable. He thinks of hands wrapped around his wrists, and the sweet, lemon pepper scent blunted under the wildflowers, and grinds his teeth.</p><p class="p1">“I’m going to need that glamour, Jaskier.” Geralt uses his scary witcher voice but Jaskier shrugs, smug. Like he’s the one with all the cards. Eskel saw the necklace around his neck in the baths today, it’s obvious that one of those rings is the trinket attached to the glamour. All Geralt would have to do is reach out and yank. The chain would break easily, maybe even leave a small mark on the back of Jaskier’s neck, a reminder. Geralt’s stomach jumps at the thought of leaving a mark on Jaskier and his body floods with warmth and he’s suddenly very uncomfortable all over again.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll give it to you, of course, but it’ll be useless unless you have the information that I do. The second you send someone else in the glamour they’ll know it’s not their daughter. Dimmy had a very particular relationship with her parents, one I have <em>intimate</em> knowledge of.” Geralt frowns, glaring at Jaskier. Geralt is starting to suspect that Jaskier is much, much smarter than he wants everyone to think he is. Dangerous. He’d never admit it, but it’s exciting. “Not to mention the lifetime of memories and experiences that she’ll be expected to remember.” Geralt huffs, and he tries to pass it off as annoyance, but he’s impressed. The bard has bite.</p><p class="p1">“What do you want, Jaskier?” He knows Jaskier won’t be effected by his witcher voice, but he uses it regardless. There is heat behind it. Jaskier’s comfort around him, around all of them, is infuriating.</p><p class="p1">“I want a promise. Just one little promise Geralt, and I’ll help coach your next Dimmy through everything she’ll need to know in order to not raise any suspicions.” Geralt grinds his teeth. They won’t need Dimmy that often, Geralt has little to no intention of attending any more political functions aside from the peace talks. He won’t throw parties, he won’t attend more political marriages, he won’t be offering Ciri’s hand in marriage to establish good relations. But, there are still the peace talks, which Dimmy may be requested to attend. There is a chance that her parents will want to visit. There are still occasional functions he simply will need the glamour in order to keep up appearances, to protect his people from war. He is tired of war.</p><p class="p1">And, he supposes, Jaskier will need this in order to protect Dimmy’s new lease on life. Perhaps he should send a witcher after her, keep tabs, just in case they ever need her. For collateral, in case Jaskier does turn out to be more like Emhyr than they all suspect.</p><p class="p1">“Name it. I will not agree blindly to a promise I have not heard.” The fae majick must have had more of an effect on Jaskier than he thought, if he’s trying similar tricks to tempt Geralt into a promise like this. Geralt’s mind wanders, just for a moment, curiously imagining what Jaskier would be like if he were actually fae. Fingernails and teeth a little bit sharper, ears a little bit pointier, his skin a little greener, a little more sunkissed. The scent of wildflowers would pour off his skin, natural and warm like the sun.</p><p class="p1">“I want you to promise me that I’m not going to leave the Keep until I’ve asked to.” Jaskier’s eyes are so blue that Geralt thinks, just for a second, that Jaskier may actually be fae. He’s not wearing that horrible glamour anymore and he can be reminded of just how pretty he is. Narrow hips, wide shoulders, posed against the wall almost like a whore with the way his hips jut out. An invitation. Geralt clenches his jaw.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier looks so unbelievably young. Is it possible for the majick to be effecting him, too?</p><p class="p1">“You want to be allowed to stay?” Jaskier nods as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Daft. What kind of a man uses his one afforded promise to secure his place <em>within</em> the White Wolf’s Keep? Any other man, any man with half a braincell left to him, would use it to ensure his escape.</p><p class="p1">Geralt looks away from Jaskier, pinching the bridge of his nose once more. He’s frustrated, and annoyed, and Jaskier is waiting patiently for an answer. The hallway stinks of wildflowers and honey and citrus and lust and it’s all becoming a little too heady for Geralt. He should just agree to this promise, it asks nothing of him.</p><p class="p1">“You do realize that you could ask to be let go and I could deny it. I’ll have made no promises to do so.” He looks back to Jaskier to see him shrug. It does something to him, makes him seethe. He has a sudden, overwhelming need to see Jaskier’s eyes widen, mouth open. He wants to know how the scent of his fear will mix with his lust, and it’s that thought that almost does him in. Geralt closes his eyes and tries to settle himself, breathing heavy through his nostrils, jaw tight.</p><p class="p1">“You will.” Jaskier sounds so fucking <em>sure</em> and it ignites the rage that’s been building in his gut. He takes two short strides and pins Jaskier against the wall, his palms spread wide against the stone just above his shoulders. Jaskier’s heartbeat is insanely loud, the rapid thump of it drowning out all other sound and Geralt’s looking right into those eyes, snarling. Jaskier’s pupils are blown wide, his hands are pressed into Geralt’s chest, shaking. His lips are barely parted, the smell of him is insanely strong now, and his lust only increases.</p><p class="p1">And still he doesn’t smell of an ounce of fear. Geralt can feel a growl rumble low in his chest, a gentle vibration. He’s furious.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe I’m stupid Geralt,” the scent of him, so close, so strong, so warm, is incredible, “but I don’t believe that you’ll force me to stay if I ask you to let me go.”</p><p class="p1">“Then you must be.” Jaskier smiles like he’s the one who won something, the cat with a mouthful of feathers, and it’s infuriating. Geralt realizes where he is, how close Jaskier is, and the familiar pressure at the base of his spine, and he thinks ‘<em>fuck</em>’. What is he doing? Before he can back off, or really allow the guilt to pour into his chest, Jaskier tilts his head up brushing his lips against Geralt’s cheek. His lips are warm, and wet, and the barely there touch shoots right to his cock.</p><p class="p1">“Goodnight Geralt.” And then the warmth is gone. Geralt slams his forehead into the cool stone, begging it to cool his skin down, and it takes him a long time to put together Jaskier’s effortless escape. A bend of the knees, a tuck and slide from under his arm, his hands trailing down his chest across his stomach, and the quick two steps to his door. Disorienting. Lithe.</p><p class="p1">He locks the fucking door.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s hands are tingling from the subtle sensation. It was just a spark of heat and electricity, everytime his skin touched Geralt. Sharp, lovely, and immediately dying down to a gentle hum that he could barely feel at all. He’d touched Geralt as much as he could, chasing after that sensation. Every minute adjustment sparked that electricity, making his hands tingle.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can understand it. Why this curse might seem like a mercy. If that’s how his skin felt when the curse was weak then how much better must it have felt when it was at full potency?</p><p class="p1">Jaskier picks up his lute, hands suddenly no longer able to be still. Touching Geralt, chasing that sensation. Would it always feel like that, touching him? Jaskier plays an old song, no longer good for anything more than a warm up for students. Complex enough that learning it spanned several introductory lessons. It’s enough to calm his mind, demand his attention, release the nervous energy he’s always fit to burst from. Despite quieting his mind and busying his hands, he can still close his eyes and <em>feel</em> it. In the palms of his hands, the pads of his fingers, electric, vibrating, warm, and very pleasant.</p><p class="p1">Sweet Melitele imagine that feeling on his cock.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s fingers don’t miss a string because he is very well practiced in his trade but it is still a very near thing. He returns his focus to his lute, his whole motivation for choosing such a complex warm up being the need to escape his winding thoughts about Geralt.</p><p class="p1">He had almost kissed him, and Geralt had almost let him. Jaskier’s nose was clogged with the scent of wildflowers, thick enough that the scent of it lingers on his palette. That’s when this strange hot electricity was at it’s strongest, Geralt pinning him to the wall, Jaskier’s hands on his chest. Maybe it was intensified by the vibrations of Geralt’s growl, which okay, he can admit that he’d found the sound incredibly hot, but it made his hands shake. The tingling reached all the way up to his forearms and all Jaskier could think under the haze of wildflowers was ‘<em>gods, what would that feel like on his lips</em>?’</p><p class="p1">It had felt incredible. Touching him is probably a horrible idea and he should resolve not to do it again.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier forces his mind to settle back down into something closer to the usual meditative peace brought on by his warmups. Yes, he loved attention, and yes he loved to entertain, but a man could be more than one thing, why not an instrument. The lute was the first thing he’d ever found in his life that could drown out the near constant swirling of thoughts and emotions and images in his mind. It didn’t take him much longer to discover sex, and then preforming after that. All three of which he has since dedicated himself to mastering and indulging in at any opportunity.</p><p class="p1">Geralt is an attractive man. Jaskier knew that before the curse. So Jaskier can trust that the curse isn’t the only reason why he reaches out, and touches, and feels that familiar need to find buttons and press them. He wants to know all of Geralt’s secrets. He can trust that he wants to chase after Geralt’s attention. He’d seen the way Geralt’s eyes paused on his hips, that night before their fucking marriage. He’d liked it then, and he likes it now. Jaskier can trust this simple fact. They both find one another attractive and did so before the curse.</p><p class="p1">As his fingers play out the end of the song he makes no pause as he starts another song. Another something old, complicated. If there were lyrics they’ve been long lost to time, but the sound of it is enough to create a story. Lovers lost, pining for one another’s touch. Jaskier’s always been a romantic and he collects love songs like a dragon would gold.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can also trust that he would have wanted to seduce Geralt without the curse weighing on his shoulders. It did get marginally easier, parsing through what was his and what wasn’t, the longer he spent in Geralt’s presence. One day he may even be able to drown it out entirely. The initial burst of it was overwhelming, but as it settles he can pick through it. Taking a reaction and holding it in his hand and seeing if it’s attached to anything else. Jaskier rarely ever had one emotion, they all tangled together so easily. Tangled, messy, and <em>alive</em>.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s attention is snapped by the sharp knock on his door. He’s been buried in his thoughts, uncertain exactly how long he’s been sitting here strumming away. It takes him some time to right himself, to understand that a knock at the door means someone is behind that door, waiting.</p><p class="p1">“Yes? Come on in.”</p><p class="p1">“Um, hi. Can you let me in?” Well, Jaskier hadn’t expected that. The person behind the door sounds young and it only serves to deepen his confusion. He had expected dinner to be delivered to him at some point, maybe this was it? But then, Jaskier distinctly remembers Geralt locking the door. Why send someone to his door with his meal but without a key?</p><p class="p1">“I’m afraid the door’s locked, love. You don’t have a key?” Maybe this was a trap, to test Jaskier’s resolve to not pick the lock. Seems cruel. Jaskier sets his lute down and approached the door, who’s handle is being jimmied as if to test Jaskier’s honesty. Rude. He squats down before it and tries to peep through the keyhole.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t, actually.” Jaskier can’t see much, just a hint of clothing. Dark blue, almost royal. It’s not as if everyone in the Keep wears black, but it certainly seems to be a favorite around here, and what color there is tends to be a very subdued. So, long thought short, the keyhole provides him no answers. “I just. I liked your music is all. I haven’t heard music in a long time.”</p><p class="p1">“Haven’t!” Jaskier’s mind sputters, shocked, before the righteous anger floods him. “<em>Hold on</em>.” Jaskier’s already halfway through picking the lock before he realizes this is probably not the best idea he’s had. He’s only just been given enough freedom to wander the Keep in the mornings and yet here he is, a mere hour after being put away on his first night, already picking the lock.</p><p class="p1">“Haven’t heard music in a long time, what kind of nonsense. I’ve never heard. I mean,” Jaskier huffs grumpily and continues to mumble to himself as he works. If this is a test then he should be easily forgiven for it. A young woman, probably a child, has just informed him that she hasn’t heard music in a long time. He’s going to have to have words with Geralt.</p><p class="p1">“And just how long is ‘a long time’ darling?” Jaskier can hear her giggling at his indignant tone.</p><p class="p1">“Um, maybe two? Three years?” Jaskier sputters, almost dropping his tools in his shock.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Three years</em>?! Oh, ho, I’m going to have <em>words</em> with Geralt. This is no way to run a. A uh.” The second the door clicks open Jaskier’s words die on his tongue. He realizes that <em>no</em>, Geralt is probably not going to forgive him for this. Jaskier covers his mouth with his hand, propped up on his knee, and all the righteous fury that was just burning his skin moments ago has suddenly cooled to ice.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck.” He watches her smile, eyes sparkling with barely restrained joy, and tries to determine just how painful his death will be.</p><p class="p1">The girl standing in front of his door is unmistakab<span class="s1">ly </span><span class="s2">Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon</span><span class="s1">,</span> the Lost Cub of Cintra.</p><p class="p1">“You have <em>got</em> to teach me how to do that!”</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Looks like I'm officially making updates on Wednesdays when I'm on time and Thursdays when I'm not lol. I'm really excited to hear how you guys feel about this chapter! It's one of my favorites so far and I really enjoyed working with a larger cast of characters. Please, let me know how you feel about it &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Jaskier tries to close the door the second his mind catches up with him but Cirilla is shockingly fast. She jams her foot inbetween the door and the frame and from there she squeezes herself into the space left open, glaring at him with the one eye he can see.</p><p class="p1">“Hey! Don’t <em>close </em>the<em> door</em>, that’s so rude.” He points his finger at her, eyes wide and trying very hard to seem stern. Jaskier uses his ‘don’t touch me or my lute you drunk fuck’ voice in the small hope that she’ll actually turn tail and leave before they get caught and he gets beheaded. Or worse.</p><p class="p1">“<em>You</em> have got to go.”</p><p class="p1">“If you aren’t nice to me I’ll tell Uncle Geralt I was on my way to dinner when I caught you walking around the Keep all by yourself.” <em>Viscous</em>. Jaskier glares right back at her, trying to parse out all of his meager options, still trying to prevent this very massive shit storm from only getting worse.</p><p class="p1">“And If you do I’ll probably be beheaded. Do you really want my death on your shoulders?” She glares at him for a long moment and he thinks he’s nearly managed to win this particular battle before she smiles, feral and terrifying and looking all the world like the cub she’s named for.</p><p class="p1">“Then you better let me in before I scream.” Fuck. He should have known this would happen sooner or later. He was such a giant shit when he was a kid, of course it had to come back and bite him in the ass at some point.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Shit</em>! Alright, come in but I swear to Melitele herself if Geralt finds out about this at all I’ll.” Jaskier isn’t sure how to end that sentence because there’s really no way to realistically threaten the fucking Lost Cub of Cintra and <em>heir fucking apparent to the Conquered Lands</em>. This is a horrible fucking idea. Cirilla slips inside and Jaskier closes the door quickly.</p><p class="p1">“How did you open the door like that? It was <em>locked</em>.” Jaskier turns around, still squatting, and glares at her but she’s just easing down to a squat right beside him, staring at the keyhole and back at the lock picking tools he still has in his hand.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not teaching you how to pick locks.” Cirilla pouts and gives him the expectant look that only a spoiled and powerful princess could be capable of making. Jaskier just stares her down, an immoveable force, but it is interesting to see his own expressions directed right back at him. It’s usually very effective but he’s completely immune to it by now. He’s fairly certain that teaching Cirilla how to lockpick would only result in getting his own hands chopped off, this girl is clearly far too much trouble already. Adding another skill to her repertoire of mischief making would only serve to earn him an early death, of that he is certain.</p><p class="p1">They glare at each other until she finally deflates, rolling her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Fine, don’t teach me how to pick locks. But don’t kick me out yet, either.” She suddenly looks like nothing more than a child and Jaskier’s always had a soft spot for kids though he’s loathe to admit it. They’re enjoyable company in small doses, quick to dance, easy to laugh, and brutally honest about his music. Not to mention how painfully soft he is for anyone who shares that same, chaotic need to just break shit. Just to see what it contained.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, fine. You can stay, but not for long. You’re going to get us <em>both</em> killed.”</p><p class="p1">“I really did just want to hear you play.” The almost apologetic look she gives him still eases his anxiety. Well, they’re here now. She really is just a kid. He gets up and waves her into the room, taking a seat on the table and picking his lute back up. She’s beaming as she rushes over to sit on the sofa, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her steepled fingers. Jaskier tries to bite back his smile at her enthusiasm and promises himself just three songs and then he’ll kick her out. Maybe four. She said it’s been years.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll play a few songs for you, but!” He points his finger at her, trying to look stern once more. “Five songs and that’s it. You’ve got to go before anyone realizes you’re here.” Cirilla’s beaming, nodding in agreement. Jaskier sighs, well and truly defeated.</p><p class="p1">The first song he plays for her is in the same vein as the one she’d heard him play through the door, only this one actually has lyrics. They’re in Elder and he’s never been good with the pronunciation of it so he settles for humming the lilt of them. Anytime he looked up to Cirilla her eyes were closed, and the shape of her mouth hinted at a smile, peaceful.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, that was so pretty. What was that one about?”</p><p class="p1">“Half the lyrics are missing, but there’s enough to know that it’s an old elven song about the dangers of taking a human lover. A beautiful song, but far too bitter for anyone to want to remember it.”</p><p class="p1">“It must have taken a long time to learn to play it, your hands were moving so quickly.” Jaskier preens.</p><p class="p1">“Imagine how much prettier it would have sounded on the instrument it was written for. There’s an entire section of the song that can’t be played because it’s an accompaniment. Scholars think it would have been some type of mutli-necked instrument lost to time and the wars.” Cirilla looks absolutely charmed by the idea. “It’s been adapted to the lute and a harp as accurately as possible and it’s usually played as a duet whenever it is played anymore.” </p><p class="p1">“I love the sad love songs the best.” Jaskier feels a flood of fondness warming his chest. A young woman after his own heart, dangerous, headstrong, a shameless brat and a helpless romantic. It’s like he’s met his long lost sister. “Will you play another?” She looks so sweet, and so young, and Jaskier almost forgets that this is the Lost Cub of Cintra, an orphan twice over. He gets a flash of an old notice, a man’s decapitated head run through a spike, driven into the ground at the gate of the charred remains of the Cintran castle. Has she seen the paintings? Or has she been locked away from any outside news? What is the relationship here, how does she fit in?</p><p class="p1">It’s an absolute marvel how she can have gone through so much and still smile so sweet.</p><p class="p1">“Whatever you like.” So Jaskier plays more love songs and Cirilla keeps her eyes closed, drinking it in with a small smile. She’s certainly one of the most attentive audiences he’s ever had, always taking a moment to ask questions about the story, if he likes playing it, if this one could be considered harder or easer to play than the last one. It’s nice to have someone so young take such an active interest, and she’s clearly been trained in some type of instrument.</p><p class="p1">They both jump when someone knocks on the door and Jaskier’s convinced for a moment that this is his end. He’s so young, it’s not fair, he’s not ready.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve come to bring your supper.” Cirilla jumps up at the sudden sound of the key in the lock and runs to the bedroom, slipping behind the door. Oh, very good, very smart, he’s certainly going to be murdered now. Jaskier’s breath is in his throat as the door opens. If it’s a witcher he’s doomed, certainly they can smell Cirilla <em>hiding in his bedroom</em>.</p><p class="p1">A servant in plainclothes comes in, looking around curiously, holding a platter of something steaming. It smells delicious.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, there you are. I’ll jus’ put this here, then.” She comes over and sets the platter down along with a bottle of wine, opened, and a glass onto the table next to where Jaskier is sitting. He has his lute in hand and he’s trying for all the world to look like he’s completely relaxed. He’s shitting bricks.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you so much, ma’am! It smells delightful.” The maidservant smiles, hands on her hips.</p><p class="p1">“I heard your lute playin’ on my way here. It’s good, we haven’t had music in the Keep in some time.” She stands there for a moment, looking at Jaskier. He may be smiling but he thinks his heart may jump out of his chest and he knows that the stench of his fear is pouring off of him in waves. “Well, then. Suppose I’ll leave you to it.” She turns to leave and Jaskier holds his breath until the key slides the locks closed once more. He doesn’t move a single inch until the sound of her footsteps have disappeared.</p><p class="p1">The fear is quickly and easily replaced with his anger. He turns to the bedroom where where Cirilla has peeked out from behind the door and glares at her. It’s a blessing the maidservant didn’t notice the door was unlocked already.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, you need to go, <em>now</em>.” He whisper-yells at her as he goes to pick the lock for her escape. He can hear Cirilla coming to stand behind him, watching as he works the lock picking tools and he glances back at her so she can see his glare. “Turn around, I refuse to let you learn how to do this.” She pouts again but does as she’s told, crossing her arms and managing to look even more put upon with the back of her head.</p><p class="p1">“You’re no fun.” Jaskier’s still angry so he doesn’t smile but he did have to remind himself that he’s angry right now in order to bite it back. This kid is going to be an absolute <em>menace</em> when she’s older, it’ll be fantastic.</p><p class="p1">“Well, I’m more than happy to be ‘not fun’ if it means I’ll also ‘be alive’.” He can actually hear Cirilla roll her eyes but she says nothing and stays turned around. Once the door pops back open Jaskier really hopes that he’ll be lucky enough that whoever opens his door tomorrow won’t notice it’s already unlocked. He turns to Cirilla, who hasn’t moved. He knows she’s heard the door opening and suddenly he doesn’t want her to leave. She’s not a child, but she’s not grown either. She’s skinny and small and his heart aches for her.</p><p class="p1">“Can I.” Cirilla squeezes her arms tighter around her middle, turning to look behind her shoulder but stopping short, staring at her own shoulder. She looks so, so small. “Can I come back?” Jaskier’s heart breaks.</p><p class="p1">“Of course, Cirilla. Anytime.” Cirilla spins around, a blur of sudden motion, and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tight for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, Jaskier.” He’s manages to push through his surprise after a moment’s hesitation to wrap his arms around her tiny middle and hug her back just as tightly. She’s shaking and he worries she might be crying.</p><p class="p1">Well. It’s been one day and Jaskier is already in possession of the two biggest secrets Kaer Morhen could possibly be hiding. There can’t be anything more shocking, he’s only human, and his heart simply won’t take the abuse.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">The door is still unlocked in the morning. Jaskier peeps his head out to see if there’s anyone standing guard, but there isn’t. Is he supposed to wait until someone comes by to let him out? Jaskier’s stomach rumbles and that’s all the excuse he needs. If he’s expected to wait around until someone comes around to open the door for him then they’ll just have to come around earlier next time.</p><p class="p1">He’s fairly certain he knows where the dining hall is by now so when he comes across a turn he doesn’t know the destination of he takes it. The Keep isn’t a winding maze, it’s all straight lines and large rooms that serve clear purposes. There’s nothing extravagant, nothing that isn’t needed. It’s utilitarian and efficient and Jaskier likes it. Yes, yes, he is a glutton for finer things, silk clothes with delicate embroidery, very old wines that have been carefully paired with expensive cheeses, and all manner of needless sparkling things. But even he can admit that there’s a fine line between extravagance and wasteful excess. He has enjoyed his time in taverns who’s roofs were dripping just as much as he has castles with beds in their guest chambers the width of three men. The Keep is a hard recoil from everything the nobility of the North demands and expects, and Jaskier has made a life in defying the expectations of nobility.</p><p class="p1">Eventually he finds himself walking down a hallway that’s more window than it is stone. There’s still snow on the ground but it’s thin and within the month it’ll all be melted and the fields will be dotted with the bright spring color of wildflowers.</p><p class="p1">The windows provide Jaskier with a perfect view of the small army of witchers training and he walks down the hall lazily, watching them. Do they train in shifts, or have a large chunk of witchers left now that the revelry from his and Geralt’s wedding has come to an end? Most likely both. Jaskier is vaguely aware that there are other Keeps, but Kaer Morhen has been generally agreed to be the main locale of witchers. Are there more witchers tucked away in the ruins of Stygga to the north?</p><p class="p1">From what he can tell there are three different groups: regular sparring, sparring with weapons, and sparring with signs. Jaskier knows some of them; igni, aard, and quen. He’d had to infer their purpose from context clues in that journal so he supposes he doesn’t know them as much as he is aware of them. The men are all quick on their feet, shockingly so. They’re huge, and heavy, and frightening but they’re also still somehow so fast that it’s a little difficult for Jaskier to keep track of their movements. It’s beautiful. Bloody, ruthless, and beautiful.</p><p class="p1">There is a group of young boys, possibly trainees, who are watching. Too young to train, probably, but not too young to watch. To start getting an idea of what they’re expected to do one day.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier reaches the end of the hall and it takes him a long time to tear his eyes away from the sight. His stomach rumbles and he decides that he’ll have to only take familiar paths until he reaches the dining hall now. He has all day to explore. Well, at least until dusk.</p><p class="p1">He’s very nearly reached his destination when an unfamiliar arm wraps itself over his shoulder and a heavy body slams into his side. He’s jostled by the new weight but manages to keep his feet underneath him and moving to keep up with the intruder’s new, quicker pace.</p><p class="p1">“So, you must be the <em>wifey</em> I’ve been hearing so much about!” The man attached to the arm laughs at his own joke and Jaskier doesn’t hide his own amusement. He’s never had too much of a problem with overly friendly people, being one himself. To a point.</p><p class="p1">“All good things, I hope.”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t mind him, Jaskier. He’s a little rough around the edges but he’s not nearly as annoying as he used to be.” Eskel says it with a smile, sliding into view next to the mysterious new man holding Jaskier. He’s shirtless once more, only now he hasn’t had the chance to let his sweat dry this time. He can see droplets running down his cheek from his hair line, glistening on his chest, and he can smell it, too. It’s not particularly pleasant but Jaskier smiles all the same, happy for the friendly face.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, fuck off Eskel. Everybody knows <em>I’m</em> your favorite.” Jaskier laughs at the face Eskel makes that informs him that this strange new creature isn’t anyone’s favorite anything. “Oh, that funny to you, <em>princess</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“Is that a threat I hear? Leveled at your <em>Queen</em>? I don’t know how witchers tend to respond to such blatant forms of disrespect but I certainly have no qualms about demanding your tongue on a platter.” Jaskier looks at him with his filthiest tone, smirking and haughty. The man pouts, clearly disappointed with Jaskier’s reaction, but he keeps his arm around his shoulder nonetheless. Eskel laughs.</p><p class="p1">“So the stow away has teeth, good to know.” The man rolls his eyes and tries to sound annoyed, but it’s obvious that he’s surprised by Jaskier’s reaction.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, Lambert. Lambert, Jaskier.” Lambert jostles him, flipping back to a smile. He looks wolfish, waggling his eyebrows.</p><p class="p1">“We’re gonna be good friends, Queenie.” Jaskier smirks, more bemused than annoyed, and ignores him.</p><p class="p1">“Have I arrived in time to accompany you to breakfast today, Eskel?” If this is how his being monitored then it’s not so much being shackled with a security guard as it is a buddy system. He’s not complaining, he hasn’t seen a single face he hasn’t wanted to know the story behind yet.</p><p class="p1">“Nah, we’re under strict order not to let you eat until you’ve worked for it, stow away.” Lambert’s smile is almost predatory and Jaskier frowns. Frisky little thing. He may be easy but he’s not a toy. He twists away from Lambert’s grasp to tuck himself into Eskel’s side, wrapping his arms around Eskel’s (he can’t be expected to see all that glistening skin and muscle and not touch it) and turns to smile sweetly at him. The sweat is certainly gross, but he gets the impression that touching Eskel will only make Lambert pout more and he has every intention of returning to those baths soon anyway. Worth it.</p><p class="p1">“You’ll share a meal with me, won’t you?” Jaskier was right, Lambert’s grumbling and huffing behind him is proof enough of his pouting. It’s rather amusing and Jaskier can’t resist glancing over at Lambert, smugly. It earns Jaskier a tongue, stuck out like a child, and Jaskier returns the favor, shaking his head to emphasize the act.</p><p class="p1">“Please don’t encourage him, Jaskier.” Jaskier turns back to Eskel, beaming.</p><p class="p1">They waste little more time in obtaining their meal. It’s the same spread and informality as Jaskier experienced yesterday. Lambert sits right next to him, as close as possible, but Jaskier ignores it as Eskel climbs into the bench in front of them.</p><p class="p1">“Lambert, hands to yourself.” The tone Eskel has is stern enough that Lambert scowls and slides away from him. Just enough so that they’re no longer touching but Jaskier can still feel the warmth radiating of his body.</p><p class="p1">“Are you usually so frisky or should I be honored to have gained your attentions so quickly?” Jaskier asks, mostly out of genuine curiosity. Lambert grins wide, eyes taunting him, absolutely brimming with mischief. Jaskier has to resist his own smile at the sight of it.</p><p class="p1">“It’d just be really fucking funny, wouldn’t it? Deflowering the Queen before Geralt does.” Jaskier laughs.</p><p class="p1">“I hate to break it to you my dear friend, but that ship has already sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.” Jaskier says it with nothing but mirth, tipping his glass to Lambert who huffs a laugh and clinks his own glass against Jaskier’s. Eskel looks a little miffed by their new found camaraderie.</p><p class="p1">“Careful little stow away, he’s only going to get worse if you keep it up.” Jaskier points his finger at Eskel, pouting with betrayal.</p><p class="p1">“I know you’re the reason why everyone is calling me that. You’ve got an apology to make.” Eskel is clearly trying to bite back a smile at him as Jaskier digs into his food. “I’ve been called by so many beautiful little names and here you are, baptizing me with ‘stow away’. Such a disappointment.”</p><p class="p1">“I think it suits you.” Lambert makes a sound that seems like agreement around his mouthful of food. Jaskier pouts, but he’d already known this wasn’t an argument he’d ever win.</p><p class="p1">“Do all the witchers train like that everyday? With such. Enthusiasm?” Lambert tries to answer around his mouthful of food but Eskel kicks him rather forcefully for his efforts.</p><p class="p1">“Fuckin’ gross when you do that Lambert.” Eskel turns to Jaskier with a calm smile, not reacting at all when Lambert kicks him in retaliation. “Yes, we train everyday.” Jaskier can see Lambet move to strike again, glaring, but Eskel’s hand goes under the table to capture Lambert’s leg. “Most of the witchers you see here will be leaving once spring begins in earnest. A lot of them have already left, but we tend to linger in the Keep a lot longer than we used to.” Lambert tries to yank his leg back but Eskel just yanks on his leg harder, shoving him down on the seat and forcing Lambert to grip at the table for support.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Fucker</em>.” Lambert grumbles as he slowly pulls himself back upright and Jaskier hides his smile behind a bite of jam smothered bread.</p><p class="p1">“And you? Will you two leave as well?” Jaskier has to admit, he would be quite sad to see Eskel go. He’s quickly become one of his favorite faces here. Not to mention that he’ll have to set to talking to as many witchers as he can before they all leave. He hadn’t realized that the majority of them would be gone so soon. Perhaps that’s why their numbers seemed so slim during the training he’d witnessed.</p><p class="p1">“As Geralt’s right hand I don’t often have the chance to follow the Path. I usually pick up any contracts close to home, whenever I can, just so I don’t go stir crazy. Locked up in here with nothing but politics and endless correspondence. Lambert, though, he’s a wild card.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m right here.” Lambert grumbles into his drink, probably still sour from loosing.</p><p class="p1">“Well? Are you staying this year or not?” Eskel asks him. Lambert shrugs with an attitude, looking like nothing more than a grumpy pup, and Jaskier thinks he must be one of the younger witchers. He doesn’t seem to have any desire to hide his emotions the way Geralt and Eskel do. Eskel just shrugs at Jaskier, ‘<em>what are you gonna do? told you he was rough around the edges’</em>, and they go back to their meal for a moment of silence. It’s not awkward, but it’s not <em>not</em> awkward.</p><p class="p1">“Does this mean the two of you have been assigned as my babysitters?” Eskel smirks while Lambert scowls.</p><p class="p1">“<em>No</em>. That would be such a waste of time.” Lambert says with a tone like he thinks that Jaskier is stupid for even suggesting it.</p><p class="p1">“Us, and the remainder of the wolves, have been instructed to keep an eye out and make sure you don’t manage to find yourself where you shouldn’t be. Lambert is right, assigning one witcher to you to follow you around would be a bit of a waste.”</p><p class="p1">“Wolves?” Jaskier has been under the impression that since Geralt was The White Wolf that they would all be wolves. That’s certainly the idea that the remainder of the Continent is operating under. So why not just say witchers?</p><p class="p1">“Do you really not know that there are different schools?” Lambert asks from next to him, incredulous and speaking around yet another mouthful of food. Jaskier raises an eyebrow and doesn’t bother to answer him. No point in answering a question twice. Eskel seems annoyed by Lambert’s insistence on speaking with a mouthful of food but he doesn’t initiate another round of beatings.</p><p class="p1">“There are seven schools. Bear, Viper, Crane, Griffon, Manticore, Cat.” Eskel counts them off on his hand, dropping his hand back to the table when he runs out of fingers to list Cat. There’s something about the way he says it that gives Jaskier the impression that he isn’t particularly fond of that school. He files it away for later.</p><p class="p1">“That’s quite a lot of schools. But they’re all witchers, right? Can’t be much to distinguish between them all.” Jaskier’s fishing. It’s a lot easier to get people to tell you the truth when you act like you already know the answer. It earns him a cool look from Eskel but Lambert snorts. Looks like someone took the bait.</p><p class="p1">“Biggest difference is Cats are all crazy as shit. Their mutations make them way more OW, <em>fuck</em>!” Lambert turns to glare at Eskel and after a moment of tense silence he stuffs his face with another heaping bite of food and doesn’t move to retaliate. Jaskier bites back a chuckle out of respect. It is his fault that Lambert earned that particular beating, he did spur him on.</p><p class="p1">Eskel glares at him, too, and Jaskier does feel a little sheepish for that. He decides it’s probably better to shift the conversation before Eskel has a chance to berate him, too. He doesn’t have any mutations, a kick to the shin would probably break it.</p><p class="p1">“So why continue going on the Path at all anymore?” Lambert gets up, shoving himself away from the table with enough force that the entire bench they’re sitting on is moved back an inch. Jaskier is so shocked by it that he can’t think of anything to say, just watches him leave wide eyed and mouth hanging open. Jaskier’s only known Lambert for all of five minutes but he suddenly feels full of guilt. It would be such a shame if Lambert never touches him again. He turns to look at Eskel, blatantly confused, but Eskel’s poking at his food and looking very tense. </p><p class="p1">“I’m. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that question would cause such a reaction.” Eskel takes a deep breath in, holds it for a long moment. Much longer than Jaskier would be capable of. When Eskel finally releases it Jaskier immediately tenses, ready for a real tongue lashing.</p><p class="p1">“It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could have known. The Path is.” Eskel’s eyebrows furrow but Jaskier still can’t infer a single thing from his expression. Jaskier has to bite back his need to gasp when Eskel lifts his head to finally look at him. His eyes look deep with misery. A hundred years worth of pain.</p><p class="p1">“The Path is what we were created for. This, <em>thing</em>.” Jaskier tries to breathe as slowly and quietly as possible, terrified to do anything that might snap Eskel’s attention back from where he’s gone. He’s tracing his scar, staring off somewhere else, unseeing. “That Geralt’s created. It. We don’t know what to do.” He looks like he’s lost in thought, somewhere far away from Jaskier and the dining hall.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can see the walls slam shut around him. Eskel shakes his head, breathing in deep once more, and Jaskier knows that despite his efforts Eskel’s chased away his thoughts on his own. Eskel scowls and stabs his fork in Jaskier’s direction.</p><p class="p1">“You. Are dangerous.” Jaskier tries to smile but he knows it’s pathetic, small and apologetic. He didn’t mean to be dangerous this time. He’s just so full of curiosity that he’s almost shaking with it.</p><p class="p1">“Will Lambert…?” Jaskier was going to ask if he’d be okay, but he holds his tongue, hesitating. Eskel smiles, something small and bitter.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry about him, he’s still young compared to the rest of us. Doesn’t quite know how to handle himself yet.” Jaskier nods, glancing back to where the other witcher disappeared.</p><p class="p1">“I know you want to collect our stories, Jaskier, but you need to remember that you’re surrounded by witchers, not men.” Jaskier tries to hide his reaction to that comment. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, makes him frustrated, angry almost. That’s a comment he’d never expected to hear in the walls of the Keep, having heard it often enough within the kingdom of Redania.</p><p class="p1">There are rumors about witchers. Horrible things. They’re men who drink the blood of the monsters they’re contracted to kill in some ridiculous attempt to take their power. Men who rip out their own hearts and their own livers and eat them raw. Men who are more animal than man anymore. Men spawned by women held down and mounted by wolves. Men who do horrible, ugly things to make themselves horrible and ugly so they can get stronger. Just like monsters.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s never believed them. Not even before he found that journal, tucked away and forgotten, in the halls of Oxenfurt. Rumors like that were just ridiculous, clearly meant to make people fear them. An obvious ploy to mkae people forget all the good rumors about how they run their lands.</p><p class="p1">The pain that man expressed on the pages of that journal. Just a sentence or two at a time, all the ways he’d been run out of towns. Denied a meal. A room for the night. Or his coin. All the casual ways he was treated like something more worthless than a stray dog.</p><p class="p1">Centuries of being treated like animals can’t just slide off the skin without leaving its mark.</p><p class="p1">“That’s such bullshit, Eskel.” Jaskier’s tone is hard, cold, and mean. It’s not often he feels rage like that bubble up in his gut, and he doesn’t want to hold onto it, but he can’t stop himself from expressing it. Eskel looks up, expression unreadable, but his eyebrows are furrowed. He’s either mad, or confused, or both, or something else entirely. Jaskier’s too angry to stop and parse it out. He forces himself to eat his food, and says nothing. He realizes, bitterly, that for all his education, and all his time spent in court halls, he’s still surprisingly daft. Head still planted firmly in the clouds, seeing all the bad and still expecting to see something good around the corner.</p><p class="p1">They finish their meal like that, in silence, tense. After his anger dies down worry starts to trickle down his spine. He watches Eskel stand up and wonders forlornly if he’s just ruined the first friendship he’s made here. Eskel sighs, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looks down at him.</p><p class="p1">“You coming to the baths with us today, Jaskier?” It takes a moment for Jaskier to smile, small and hopeful, before he stands up. Eskel’s seems relieved when Jaskier grabs his arm like always and they fall into a conversation that’s safer. It’s easy and neither of them ask for forgiveness because neither or them have anything to be sorry for.</p><p class="p1">After joining a larger group of witchers and slipping easily into their conversation Lambert slips in next to him. Jaskier floods with relief, smiling bright, and lets Lambert slip his arm around his shoulders and press him close into his side. It’s comfortable. Lambert is smaller than his brothers but he’s still hard with muscle and rough with scars. He wants to know each and every story his mind buzzes with the endless questions.</p><p class="p1">“Looks like Lambert’s beggin’ the Wolf for a beating!” The pool erupts in laughter and Lambert joins in. Jaskier balks at the comment. He’s never spoken to Geralt about their marriage, he’s not even technically his husband. This seemed a bit more serious than their usual jokes. There’s heat in that comment, some of the witchers around him look nervous. Jaskier turns to Eskel who’s scratching at his scar again.</p><p class="p1">Was he actually considered Geralt’s husband here?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier is singing.</p><p class="p1">It’s lunch, the sun is high in the sky and the Keep almost feels warm, and Jaskier is singing. His men are chanting along, stomping their feet or banging their fists to the table, and the hall is full of life and laughter. Jaskier is bouncing up and down the space between the two tables to the left of the dining hall, bare feet slapping against the stone. Geralt should find some shoes for him at some point, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that there’s a free pair tucked away somewhere. Jaskier doesn’t seem bothered to be barefoot, but still. He should get him some shoes.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier looks so alive. He’s a ball of energy, bouncing around, twirling. He’s filling the room with his scent, warm and sweet and twinged with sweat. If Geralt focuses he can locate the undercurrent of his peppery lust. He’s singing something downright filthy, just gods awful. A song that he could only have ever learned during a visit to a brothel and the men love it. Jaskier seems to eat up every single ounce of attention, hamming it up as much as possible, pouring himself into the show. And he is putting on a show. This is more than a bard passing by and busking for coin, Jaskier is showing off.</p><p class="p1">It’s incredibly distracting. Geralt was walking towards his office when he heard the singing but once he’d walked into the dining hall and caught sight of Jaskier he’d stopped. Seeing Jaskier sparked something in his gut. He stuck to the shadows, hiding himself from Jaskier’s view. There’s something about how he looks, so open, vulnerable, distracted. It would be far too easy to grab him and drag him away, he’s made effort to defend himself, to stay aware of his surroundings. He’s in a room full of witchers, men he couldn’t possibly know all the names of and still, there he is, making himself look and smell, for all the world, like the most tempting prey.</p><p class="p1">Fucking daft. Geralt would probably fall on his sword before he admits it, but he’s hiding from Jaskier. He wants to touch him. He wants to hide him away and see what it feels like to have all that immense, overwhelming passion, and attention focused in on him. He’s beautiful.</p><p class="p1">How long has he been standing here? He needs to get to his office, Ciri is waiting for him.</p><p class="p1">Ah, shit. Ciri.</p><p class="p1">Geralt tears his eyes away from Jaskier, slipping into the narrow hallway created by the low hanging tapestries behind the high tables. His office is tucked away behind them, more out of convenience than any need for secrecy. He can see that the door is open, light pouring out into the hallway, and he hopes that Ciri has kept herself hidden. He’s not upset that she’s in the same room as Jaskier, but it does make him nervous.</p><p class="p1">When he turns into the office he can see her sitting on the floor, leaned against the couch, picking at their lunch.</p><p class="p1">“You’re late.” She says it in a sing-song voice, wagging her finger at him. Geralt frowns and turns to close the door. “Wait! Don’t do that, I want to be able to hear him.” Geralt keeps his hand on the door when he turns to give her a reproachful look.</p><p class="p1">“He’s singing songs that would make whores blush.” Ciri rolls her eyes, flinging her arms to her sides, palms up, as if she’s pleading with the gods themselves.</p><p class="p1">“You really think I haven’t heard these songs before?” The exasperated look she gives him makes Geralt frown deeper, eyebrows furrowing.</p><p class="p1">“You spend too much time with Lambert.” Ciri gives him the most innocent smile and flutters her eyelashes. He gives up, leaving the door open. There are some fights that are lost before they’ve even started and at this point, with Ciri at least, he can recognize them. He sits at the couch, close enough that her shoulder leans against his knee, and they share their lunch in silence for a long time, listening to Jaskier’s music.</p><p class="p1">It’s comfortable and Jaskier’s voice is good. It carries really well in the hall and the men are acting like they’ve been drinking for hours already. Which, they may have been, spring is almost here, the snow on the ground is thin and melting. Soon there won’t be a single excuse left not to leave.</p><p class="p1">“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Geralt looks down to Ciri who’s staring out the door like it makes it any easier to hear.</p><p class="p1">“Hm?”</p><p class="p1">“It’s been such a long time since I’ve heard music.” Geralt wonders if that’s something he’s failed to provide. Ciri is a princess, she was practically raised with music and extravagance every day. Geralt himself has never cared too much one way or the other for music, always having preferred the silence. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ciri might miss it. She belonged here, she was a part of him, it seemed only natural that she’d prefer the silence, too.</p><p class="p1">“Do you-”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, hush. You haven’t failed me in some way. It’s just nice.” Geralt can hear her smile and he relaxes. She’s too smart. “Is that your husband playing?” Geralt frowns. That title again.</p><p class="p1">“Yes.” No point in arguing, it is true.</p><p class="p1">“He’s good. I wonder if he knows anything less bawdy.” There’s something that makes Geralt feel like she’s lying. He doesn’t know what she could be lying about, she hasn’t said anything that necessitates a lie. Maybe it’s just his anxiety about her connection to music. She hasn’t touched her clavichord in a long time, years. Not since Calanthe died. He isn’t sure what to say so he choses not to say anything. It’s the safest option.</p><p class="p1">Eventually Ciri starts eating again and Geralt smiles. Will there every be a day where he doesn’t worry about Ciri’s appetite? The first year after the sacking of Cintra she could barely eat anything more than bread sopped in broth and he thinks he’ll never stop worrying about her.</p><p class="p1">“I remember the first time I ever played the clavichord.” Geralt pauses, watching her speak like she’s miles away. She maintains her vigilance at the door. “My hands where on top of theirs as they played. The sound was so soft and I could smell vanilla.” <em>Pavetta</em>. She remembers Pavetta. Does she know it’s a memory of her mother? Geralt thinks he can remember it, too. Ciri in the winter, on her mother’s lap, playing a simple melody. Pavetta did it often, it was her favorite instrument.</p><p class="p1">“I miss the smell of vanilla. I dream about it sometimes, the smell. Nothing else but the smell of it.” A perfume, Pavetta’s perfume.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri.” Geralt still doesn’t know what she say. She turns around and smiles, bright, and shoves her weight into his leg, jostling the both of them.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks for having lunch with me today, Uncle Geralt. I know things have been kind of busy lately, what with these upcoming peace talks and the marriage and everything.” Geralt rests his hand on the top of Ciri’s head, shaking her around a little bit.</p><p class="p1">“Always make time for you, little cub.” Ciri giggles and smacks at his wrist. They can hear the men howling as Jaskier starts up a new song. It’s nice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">That’s how the next week progresses. Geralt spends time with Ciri inbetween meetings preparing for the peace talks and he catches snippits of what Jaskier is up to around the Keep. It’s strange. Everything will be going along just like it always has and then Geralt will hear half a conversation and suddenly remember that things aren’t everything as usual. <em>Jaskier’s asking a lot of questions. Isn’t it weird how he listens? He looks at you like you’re the only one in the room and he asks questions and the shit he says. Has he said anything to you? </em>It’s jarring and it makes Geralt feel unsteady. He doesn’t know why he feels so on edge, and he settles for annoyance.</p><p class="p1">It makes sense to be annoyed by this. Everyone around him is talking about Jaskier. His scent lingers in rooms that surprises him everytime he catches it. He’s dangerous, wandering the Keep, gaining affection. He’s always gone. He turns the corner and he smells him, he’s walking down the hall and he hears him, but he hasn’t seen him.</p><p class="p1">It’s not exactly true. He sees him and he hesitates, waiting for him to turn the corner. He hears him in the hall and he goes into a room with an open door, waiting to see what he says. His skin feels feverish and Ciri tells him he’s grumpier than usual and Yen just rolls her eyes and ignore him for the most part. He’s just annoyed because the Keep isn’t his anymore. It feels invaded somehow. He can’t go fucking anywhere without that scent.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt brings up the issue of Jaskier’s glamour in a meeting with his advisors. It’s the first time they’ve mentioned him in their meetings, and he hesitates to do it all of a sudden. They need to talk about it, to start working on this problem, but it feels. Almost like giving it up. Like a secret he was supposed to keep. It’s fucking annoying.</p><p class="p1">“And just how did you manage to secure such a promise from your <em>husband</em>, Geralt?” Yen’s looking at him like she’s trying to rile him up at Eskel fails miserably at hiding a laugh behind a cough. Geralt doesn’t answer, just glares.</p><p class="p1">“Who do you think should replace Jaskier as the new Dalimira stand in?” Triss asks, and thank the gods she’s here because she’s the only one who can be serious through the whole meeting.</p><p class="p1">“Lambert?” Yen snorts, hiding her smile behind her hand and Eskel looks more excited than Ciri does on her birthday. Geralt bites his own smile back when he catches Triss’s very exasperated glare. When she looks down at the books she has open, though, her lips quirk into a hint of her nothing-but-sunshine smile. It’s good.</p><p class="p1">“I think we should get one of the other mages to do it. That way if anything happens they may be able to prevent damage without having to fight their way out.” Triss asks for a round of ayes and it’s unanimous. It wasn’t even five minutes. They all really seem to have decided that Jaskier can be trusted.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, let’s move on to outlining our requests regarding the Elven Kingdom. Eskel, have you sent out our letters of invitation to them, yet?” Geralt should have someone track down more of Yen’s favorite perfumes as a thank you for bringing Triss into the Keep. She’s a blessing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Eskel seems to have decided that informing Geralt about Jaskier’s goings-ons is a necessary aspect of his duties as right of hand. It’s never anything useful, of course, or even provided at convenient time. Geralt thinks he’s just doing it to get a rise out of him, force him into doing something, but he hasn’t figured out what Eskel is expecting of him. And he sure as shit doesn’t ask because if he asks then he’ll have no excuse for not doing it anymore and he’s not certain if he wants to know besides. He’d much prefer to let Jaskier go on being a ghost in the Keep and pretend he doesn’t hear his lute, or his voice, or catch a hint of his impossible to ignore clothing as he disappears down another corridor.</p><p class="p1">He thinks he might be avoiding him. He has a good reason for it. Geralt ignores the way it makes his stomach drop.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You know I thought he wanted to fuck me but I’m just starting to think he always smells of lust. Everyone says he smells like sex and candy.” Eskel says it so softly that no one else can hear it but him. He’s leaning against the wall while Geralt talks to the group of trainees who are about to embark on their first year of shadowing older, fully mutated witchers. It makes his thoughts scatter and he has to ask a trainee to repeat their question. It’s not his fucking business who Jaskier spends his time fucking or thinking of fucking. The smirk on Eskel’s face almost earns him a black eye.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Eskel opens the door to the office, leaning in with a huge smile, practically shitting himself he’s so excited.</p><p class="p1">“He got into a screaming match with a viper and afterwards <em>the viper</em> apologized.” Geralt’s glares at Eskel, he’s growing tired of this game.</p><p class="p1">“That’s a fucking lie.” Eskel just laughs and closes the door. There’s a moment where Geralt considers following him, demanding the full story, curious about what Jaskier could have possibly gotten into a screaming match with a fucking <em>viper</em> about. He doesn’t.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I heard he smacked a cat’s hand the other day and he’s still got all his fingers.” Geralt’s head snaps to Eskel over his shoulder. They’re training and Geralt tried to make sure that Eskel was on the other side of the fucking group but he’s still managed to make his way over. Before Geralt can get a chance to ask him what the fuck he’s talking about he gets a particularly nasty kick to the ribs and by the time he’s regained the upper hand Eskel is gone.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt starts hearing it from other people, too.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Anytime I bother him he just smacks me. He doesn’t even seem to think twice about it, he just does it. Does he ever smell of fear?” Lambert looks as confused as Geralt feels, but he’s still refusing to talk to Lambert about his shameless attempts to seduce his husband. It does soothe something in his chest, though, hearing about all the fearless ways Jaskier establishes his own boundaries. It’s also funny how Lambert sulks whenever he’s reminded of Jaskier’s obvious crush on Eskel.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I tried to glower at him to give me the last of the blueberries the other morning and he just glared right back. Then he stuffed them all in his mouth at once. You’ve seen my glower, right? He just walked away like I was nothing more than a wet boar!” Geralt hears it in passing as he’s making his way to another meeting. He hates that it makes him chuckle, that he wishes he’d seen that exchange. Jaskier is certainly making himself comfortable here and it’s so bizarre that he forgets to be annoyed by it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“He played me a little bit of something he was working on, it sounded really good. He’s under the impression that we’re heroes or something, though.” Geralt hears it while he’s trying to relax in the baths and he just slips under the water for a single fucking moment of peace.There’s a muffled sound of laughter and it sits wrong on Geralt’s chest. He hasn’t seen Jaskier with his own eyes the entire week but he’s still surrounded by him.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Ciri starts playing her clavichord.</p><p class="p1">He listens to her every night, staring into the fire, and wonders where she’s getting this music. He wasn’t sure where Pavetta stashed her’s away and he’s certain that she didn’t have music like this. It’s beautiful, even the way Ciri’s fingers hesitate inbetween notes, trying to regain her dexterity, trying to remember which keys are which, trying to familiarize herself with the music.</p><p class="p1">The last time she’d played it was during the first month she’d moved into the Keep full time. She was supposed to already here but Calanthe pushed back her leave time. Winter was coming slow that year. It wasn’t unheard of so Geralt thought nothing of it. He’s still beating himself up about it, if he’d insisted on retrieving her in a timely manner she wouldn’t have had to see Calanthe die. She wouldn’t have spent the entire season trying to make it to the Keep on her own.</p><p class="p1">She wouldn’t have spent hours sitting at the clavichord, staring at the keys, and crying without realizing it. Geralt picked her up, forced her to eat something, and told her stories until she finally fell asleep. When she was finally deep enough that he could safely leave his voice was hoarse and he covered the instrument in a thick blanket and that was that. She never even looked at it.</p><p class="p1">He didn’t expect her to ever touch the instrument again.</p><p class="p1">Once Ciri is comfortable with the piece she starts experimenting with the best way to play it. Calanthe loved the insturment because it could be so quiet that if Ciri practiced on one side of the room she couldn’t hear her on the other. Pavetta loved it because if she pressed her weight onto the keys it could ring out just as loud as a harpsichord. And that’s what Ciri does, playing her new music over and over, trying to see how best to use the instrument’s unique capacity for expression.</p><p class="p1">Geralt thinks the only reason that Ciri is playing again is because of Jaskier’s presence in the Keep. It twists his stomach into knots, makes him angry. He knows he can’t be everything for her, knew that before she was ever even born. Still, he wishes he could. It’s a familiar anger, one that he knows is just hiding his loss.</p><p class="p1">Somehow spending their lunches together with the door open so they can hear every note Jaskier plays has managed to open a door inside Ciri that Geralt never would have been able to reach. She looks happier, more relaxed. He hadn’t known that she was still so tense until he watched it ease out of her shoulders. Regardless of his anger, he is still thankful for it. If Eskel is right, and Destiny did bring him Jaskier, then this is blessing enough. It’s enough.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Everytime he hears Jaskier’s name his stomach flips. It’s uncomfortable. He gets to his office early, waits for Ciri, and stays behind late, after she’s left. They listen to Jaskier play, and Ciri gets this glowing look of joy whenever he plays the songs he’s written about the stories he’s collected thus far.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Now, I’m still workshopping this one, so let me know what you think. These are your stories afterall.</em>” Jaskier says it with a laugh and everytime the men get quieter, listening intently. Ciri hasn’t heard a single one she doesn’t like.</p><p class="p1">It wouldn’t be hard to see him. All he has to do is be late to lunch, or just on time. If he left with Ciri, walked down that narrow hall, when she left with Yen for her studies, he’d be able to see him inbetween those tapestries. He never looks. He waits, staring at his correspondence. By the middle of the week he doesn’t have any more letters to send so he’s just staring at reports. Shit he’s never cared about and Eskel knows it.</p><p class="p1">“He asks about you.” Eskel says it like Geralt needs to shut up and get over it. Geralt doesn’t know what Eskel means by it, he’s kept his mouth shut and he doesn’t have a problem.</p><p class="p1">“Okay.” Eskel just rolls his eyes and Geralt knows what’s going on. He knows what he’s doing and he knows that Eskel knows. It’s not something he wants to deal with. It’s not something he’s interested in talking about. So Eskel just shrugs and leaves Geralt to listen to Jaskier singing a few more songs, bare feet slapping on cold stone.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier is cursed. All the taunting, the smiles, the reaching out to touch, even that sweetened peppery smell of his lust isn’t his own. Jaskier does not want him, does not chase him. He’s a flirt. He smells like sex and candy, he winks, he wears his shirts half unlaced, and he juts his hips out. He’s just like that, he’s just having fun. So all those smiles, all that touching, it’s just him all mixed up with that curse.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier doesn’t want this. To be bound. He didn’t even bother to ensure his escape because it was so obvious to him that he’d be able to leave. Geralt needs to let go of this infatuation, it’s dangerous.</p><p class="p1">Has Yen made any progress in her research?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>That's right folks! I have blessed you with two chapters in one week. This chapter is fucking long and I'm not even sure how it got that way tbh but here we are. And no worries, there's still going to be your regularly schedule chapter next week, too. Let me know what you think! It was really fun to explore how this setting would allow Geralt to have a lot of character development.<br/>One of these days I'll write a conversation with four people but that day is not coming anytime soon. <br/>(edited: this site is trying to rob me of my italics)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">There’s a knock on the door. It’s late, too late for it to be Ciri(she prefers Ciri, it turns out) and it’s the wrong knock. He’s terrified everytime she knocks on his door but he’s come to enjoy her company. She’s smart and, despite all the people here who clearly adore her, she’s lonely. They’ve spent most of their time talking about music, but there was one day where she sat near the hearth and shook. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, didn’t smile or laugh. She just stared into the flames and begged him not to stop playing, shaking like a leaf the whole time.</p><p class="p1">It was terrifying and he was glad she didn’t have the same mutations of the witchers because he thinks she would have fled and never returned to his rooms if she’d been able to smell just how scared he was. She needed something and so far he was the one she was asking to give it.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier shakes the thought from his mind and glances over his shoulder to the door.</p><p class="p1">“Come in!” He’s tired and he’s already had his dinner so he’s out of ideas for who could be at his door. He hasn’t picked the lock since Eskel returned him earlier so if there’s someone at his door who wants to get in they’ll have to have a key or be willing to kick it down because he has no interest in getting up right now.</p><p class="p1">The sound of a key turning the locks is an honest surprise. Ciri’s never visited this late but she’d been his best guess so he tosses his journal onto the table and turns around to watch who emerges. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he has one of his furs draped over his shoulders so he’s not completely indecent.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, I.” Geralt’s standing in the doorway, looking adorably concerned, and holding two steaming cups in one hand. “I wasn’t sure if you would be awake or not.” Jaskier smiles and pulls his legs up to make room for Geralt on the couch next to him without even thinking. He hasn’t seen Geralt since the second day he was here. Pinned to the wall, Geralt’s breath tickling his cheek. He doesn’t have it in him to fight that electric warmth shooting down his spine, or the way his chest fills with fluttering, or the way his stomach flips. He knows this isn’t his, he knows it’s not real, but it feels so nice and he’s too tired to deny himself this moment.</p><p class="p1">“Oh. Geralt.” He’s surprised, and there’s a thrill of anxiety running down his spine. Here’s his perfect chance to ask Geralt the question that’s been scratching away at the back of his mind since he’d met Lambert. His mouth clamps shut, though. He’d begun to worry that Geralt was trying to avoid him. He’s been trying to parse out if the disappointment over Geralt’s sudden disappearance was his own or came from the curse. It’s still unknown, but that tension in his shoulder blades melting away is too good a feeling to question right now. Geralt still stand in the doorway, looking like he might bolt any moment now.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t want to run Geralt off already with such an intense question right out the gate. Especially since it may mean Geralt will run off for another week, maybe longer.</p><p class="p1">“It’s late, I shouldn’t have,-”</p><p class="p1">“Come in, come in.” Jaskier waves him in and the fur slips from his shoulder with the movement, exposing half of his bare chest to the chill. He supposes it’s not really that cold, but it’s very warm under the fur and his body can notice the difference. Geralt hesitates just a moment longer before he kicks into action. He pulls the door to so that there’s only a silver of the hallway left visible. Jaskier can’t see much of anything since the hallway doesn’t seem to be lit at all but he doesn’t think that’s really the point.</p><p class="p1">“Ohh, what’ve you brought me?” Jaskier slips his other arm out from under the fur, trapping it inbetween his bicep and his forearm so that he doesn’t loose all of his cocoon of warmth as he reaches for one of the mugs in Geralt’s hand.</p><p class="p1">“Tea.” Geralt says it like he’s just been beaten into admitting it which is funny (and cute) because it’s just tea, not a bouquet of roses. Jaskier takes the mug, wrapping his hands around it to feel the warmth, and holds it close to his chest. The tea smells hot, subtly sweet, and there’s a hint of lemon. There’s something else, too, something spiced, and his mouth waters. It smells wonderful. He feels jittery, suddenly full of energy. He’s never allowed himself to sink into the curse, to lay down and let it wash over him like this. He feels so fond, so pleased by this simple act of kindness, that he might burst from it. </p><p class="p1">“Well, c’mon, sit down.” Jaskier says it with a laugh, smacking the free space next to him with his palm. Geralt looks around the room, confused, like he’s trying to figure something out. Why did he come here?</p><p class="p1">“Can’t just stand there all night, darling.” Jaskier feels elated as Geralt finally sits, gingerly, so as not to jostle their drinks. Without thinking about it Jaskier stretches his legs back out as he blows on the tea to be certain it won’t burn him. He flinches the moment they touch, just a short wince before he commits. He wants to touch, but he’d forgotten about that sharp heat that happened the last time he touched Geralt. Jaskier’s rested one foot against Geralt’s thigh and stretched out his other leg to sit in his lap, and everywhere they touch is absolutely humming with majick. It’s gotten stronger. It trails up his legs and Jaskier tries very hard not to rub his legs against Geralt to chase after it, to see if it’ll get any stronger. It feels incredible and it doesn’t fade immediately like last time. It lingers.</p><p class="p1">Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s feet, considering the casual familiar touch as if it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen. He turns to Jaskier, a silent question in his expression, and Jaskier just smiles and waggles his eyebrows. Geralt pouts, just a subtle downturn of his mouth, but he seems to decide to stay anyway. He’s still regarding Jaskier’s feet with skepticism.</p><p class="p1">“I- has no one gotten you shoes yet?” Jaskier shrugs.</p><p class="p1">“I like being barefoot.” Jaskier takes a sip of the tea and he gasps, sputtering and coughing when he accidentally breathes it in. “Oh, Geralt, you rascal! You could’ve warned me you put <em>whiskey</em> in the tea.” He chuckles as he wipes off his chin with the back of his wrist and presses his foot into Geralt’s thigh, jostling him a little. He looks like he’s finally beginning to relax some, thank the gods.</p><p class="p1">“Shit night.” Geralt shrugs and lifts his mug to Jaskier in a silent cheers before taking his own gulp. He’s beautiful, sprawled on Jaskier’s couch, one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other resting on the arm, legs spread out. He takes up space, his body exudes heat, and there’s one small braid in his hair. Just above his ear and tucked into his half ponytail.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier thinks Ciri must’ve done that. She’d told him once that Eskel taught her how to braid the really complex ones, six and eight strand braids, but he’d refused to tell her how he’d learned it. Jaskier itches to ask, to try and wheedle to truth out of him.</p><p class="p1">“Why? What happened?” Jaskier feels the curse settling over him like a heavy blanket, thick and warm and sparkling. He feels like he’s breathing in pure sunshine. Geralt had a shit night and he came to Jaskier’s rooms with spiked tea for comfort. What had he done to earn such an opportunity? Whatever it was he wants to do it again and again and again.</p><p class="p1">“Had the first meeting for the peace talks.” Geralt’s staring at the dying fire, the wood crackling and snapping. “They’re saying these talks are the ‘Peace of Cintra’.” Geralt rolls his eyes and scowls. Jaskier gives him a moment to expound on that thought in silence, tracing the shape of his jaw. Cintra has been handling a succession crisis for four years since it’s sacking. The Kingdom fell asleep one night, all is well, and woke up the next day to a castle that was little more than rubble. And despite the head on a spike, and the barker that stood next to him, everyone in the Northern Kingdoms was certain that Geralt did it.</p><p class="p1">How did Ciri fit into that story? Is her presence here some ass backwards attempt to claim the throne? That’s not possible, because Geralt could have easily claimed Cintra by Law of Conquer, just like he did with Ebbing almost seventy years ago. He’s also left Cintra alone, not even coming near it, in four years. Jaskier itches to ask, but he bites his questions back. If he happens to say anything that might even hint at him knowing about Ciri Geralt might leave, and he’s only just gotten here. Geralt looks, even when he’s glowering, completely at ease, and Jaskier doesn’t want to ruin that.</p><p class="p1">Is this forgiveness for their last meeting? Jaskier knows he’d pushed him, made him uncomfortable with that almost kiss. But he’s always been selfish and he doesn’t feel bad enough to keep his hands to himself. Well, feet in this particular instance.</p><p class="p1">“No one.” Geralt pouts, clearly trying to decide if he should say what he’s thinking. Jaskier jostles him agains with his foot after a long pause. When Geralt looks over he tilts his chin, encouraging him to come out with it. “No one there calls me by my name. They all reek of fear.” He grumbles it into his mug, bitter and tired. Jaskier’s not at all certain how to answer that. It’s surprising to hear, a room full of terrified Kings. Geralt came to him because he calls him by his name and doesn’t smell of fear. He’d be flattered if it weren’t so fucking sad.</p><p class="p1">The thrumming spark in his feet has died down, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to die out the way it did last time. Jaskier spends his time staring. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to run him off again. Not yet at least. He doesn’t try to hide his staring, doesn’t really see the point in it. Geralt’s hair is silver but not the silver of an older man. There’s no salt and peppering here, it looks almost as if it’s devoid of color entirely. He can feel his fingers tingling with that electric energy, desperate to reach out and curl the locks around his fingers. That’s new, the thrumming showing up at the mere thought of touching him. It’s subtle, incredibly so, but it’s there.</p><p class="p1">This really is getting stronger. </p><p class="p1">“Why is your hair this color?” Geralt glances at him from the corner of his eye, bemused. That small smile, the mischievous glint in his eye, it steals his breath.</p><p class="p1">“I’m very old, Jaskier.” Geralt says it like he’s talking to a small child, serious, but with a hint of a smile, a tightness at the corner of his eyes. Jaskier laughs, resting his tea on his knee to prevent it from spilling. It’s the first time since Geralt’s come in that he’s able to catch a breath away from the warm, spiced scent of the tea. He can smell wildflowers, thick in the air. He lifts the tea back to his face, returning the steam to just below his nose.</p><p class="p1">Not now. He wants to enjoy this, not now.</p><p class="p1">“How old, exactly?” Geralt raises his eyebrows and gives him a stern look.</p><p class="p1">“Have you forgotten your manners so soon?” Jaskier bites his lip, smiling. Geralt must be exhausted to be so comfortable around him. He can see the signs of it, the lethargic way he moves around, the way his eyes are half-lidded, the ease with which he expresses himself. How can he get Geralt to stay? He wants to know if he’s a morning person or not. If he wakes up slowly, or all at once. If he’s the type to roll over and doze for another ten minutes before relenting to wakefulness. He burns with curiosity.</p><p class="p1">“I’d initially thought that the particular coloring was due to your witcher mutations but I’ve met plenty of witchers by now. None of them seem to be so particularly blessed.” Geralt watches the fire but Jaskier knows he’s not being ignored. He can feel the warmth of the whiskey in his belly, coating his throat, and sleep starting to settle into his own limbs. He’s tired but he’s no where near ready to fall asleep. He feels comfortable, and happy. His body thrums with desire and he tries not to focus on it. </p><p class="p1">“It was the mutations. I took to them particularly well.” Geralt doesn’t look at him when he speaks, just staring down into his mug. He goes to take another gulp, but pauses with his lips on the rim, mumbling into his drink, “They experimented.” Oh. There’s something about that little piece of information that suddenly makes their mutations far too real. It feels like the world comes to a violent halt, a spark of shock shoots in his gut, painful.</p><p class="p1">When Jasier hears about majickal transformations he imagines it as something heroic, powerful, something more akin to a master sculptor picking away at the marble to uncover the god like figure hidden underneath. Experimentation is enough of a gruesome word to snap him back to reality. He suddenly realizes, all at once, that the mutations are painful. Of course they’re painful. They’re strong enough that the mere brewing of them would render his lungs useless and they’re horrible enough that only three out of ten boys survive. There’s nothing heroic about that.</p><p class="p1">It’s fucking torture.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry.” Jaskier fills sick with his guilt and he chases it with a gulp of his tea, trying to relax into the warmth it provides. Geralt smirks, though, looking for all the world like an apology is the last thing he’d expected from Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">“It’s why I’m the White Wolf. It made me capable to do this. To have this.” Geralt does this slow pan of the room, his free hand waving at the wrist in a poor excuse of a presentation. It’s something Jaskier would do, only much more subdued. It’s charming and something in it helps ease his guilt some. There’s so much he doesn’t know. His mind floods with questions, and he licks his lips slowly, worrying the skin, to try and find the right question.</p><p class="p1">“And why did you want this Oh Great White Wolf?” Jaskier tries to play it off as a joke, pretend like he isn’t dying to know. ‘<em>The world is changing</em>’ and he wants to know what that means. His hands are almost shaking with his need to know. He wants to know everything, he’s always wanted to know everything.</p><p class="p1">“Do you know why witchers were created to begin with, Jaskier?” Geralt turns to look at him now, expectant, curious. Still comfortable. Something in the direct eye contact catches his breath for a moment. His pupils are wide, adjusted to the low light. He can probably see him as well as he could in the daylight. What must that be like? Jaskier’s body thrums with the majick, desperate to reach out and touch. The mug is cooling quickly in his hands and he holds on even tighter, chasing after that comforting, distracting heat.</p><p class="p1">“I know that their purpose is to slay monsters for coin. Cursed to travel lonely roads and provide service for towns that treat them like little more than monsters themselves.” There it is again, that small smile tugging on Geralt’s lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. What can he do to make him smile with his whole mouth, unrestrained, displaying teeth? How can he make his eyes shine with mirth? Jaskier wants to learn every single secret button that can do that.</p><p class="p1">“Close. When we were created humans were the invaders here. Our purpose was to carve out a place for them in the Continent, to make it safe for them to live their lives. Own their lands. Sow their food. Fuck their wives and raise their children.” Geralt’s tone is bitter, cruel almost. He turns his attention back to the fire, scowling. Jaskier understands immediately.</p><p class="p1">“You took advantage of Ebbing’s succession crisis to ensure that your home was safe.” Jaskier thinks if he weren’t already being suffocated under the weight of his love for Geralt then he’d have fallen willingly. He’s a tragic hero, fighting for right to live a good life. He’s overthrown kingdoms to do it. Hell, he’s conquered half the Continent to do it. It’s breath taking.</p><p class="p1">“Hm. You listen.” Something about those two words make Jaskier feel like he must be glowing. It’s pure love flowing through his veins. Jaskier scoffs and smacks at Geralt’s arm with the back of his hand, more sound than anything else, smiling bright.</p><p class="p1">“My whole purpose for coming here is to listen, Geralt. Don’t be rude.” Geralt chuckles silently and he has a real smile. There’s even a flash of teeth. Jaskier thinks he might have swallowed the sun. His hand is tingling. The thrumming traveled all the way up to his wrist from just that one second of touch. It’s slow to fade and it makes Jaskier ache to do it again. To wrap his hand around his arm and squeeze that muscle, see if it gives.</p><p class="p1">He’s seen so many half to fully nude witchers by now. He knows that Geralt will be covered in scars but there’s no knowing where they’ll be. How old they are, how deep and how long and where they came from. He wants to pull that shirt off of him and lick every single line.</p><p class="p1">They lull back into their silence and Jaskier polishes off his tea. His chest is warm and when he breathes he can smell the alcohol on his tongue. His chest flutters, his body tingles, his gut flips and he feels alight. He wants. He can feel himself blushing, knows it’s flushing his chest bright pink, but he makes no move to cover himself with the fur. The shape of Geralt’s mouth, the way his throat works when he finishes off his own tea, the way his hair pours over his shoulder when he bends to set his mug down. Oh, how he wants. The movement jostles his feet some and the resulting spike of electricity shoots right to his cock.</p><p class="p1">It’s not his, it’s not fucking his. Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He keeps the mug in his hands to keep his hands occupied.</p><p class="p1">It’s not his, it’s not his, it’s not his.</p><p class="p1">Nervous enegery returns to his gut, to his fingers, as he thinks again about his relationship with Geralt. People here will flirt with him but the only one who touches him is Lambert. Even Eskel never initiates their contact. It’s something that would have worried him if Eskel didn’t always look so comforted by his touch. Anxiety trickles down his spine, tightens his throat. He wants to know why people here treat him as Geralt’s husband. Why, for the past week, some have called him Consort, or wifey, or even just ‘Geralt’s husband’. He doesn’t know why anyone would be under the impression that they’re actually married. Legally it’s Dalimira.</p><p class="p1">Why is he so nervous to breech this subject with Geralt?</p><p class="p1">The low sound of Geralt’s voice sends relief flooding through Jaskier. It’s a beautiful voice. Thank Melitele herself, he wasn’t ready to have that conversation. Not yet. Not now.</p><p class="p1">“I saw their army and I realized we’d be gone. They don’t write about us in their history books, they certainly don’t sing songs about our hunts,” Geralt smiles again, turning to direct it at him for a moment. Jaskier feels jittery with pent up energy, with the majick sparking through his body, with the desire to touch, with his desperate, burning curiosity. The world is changing. Everything he thought he knew was wrong. “And they don’t think our lives are worth much of anything at all.” There are seven schools of witchers, but only three Keeps remain. Kaer Morhen has been attacked once before and was crippled by it. They aren’t mutating the trainees. So why have trainees?</p><p class="p1">“Your people were on the verge of extinction.” Geralt smiles and Jaskier thinks, wildly, that he might be drunk. “You’re securing a legacy.” He looks impressed, proud even, that Jaskier put it together.</p><p class="p1">“I’m securing a legacy.” Geralt isn’t a power hungry warlord, he’s not some human king desperate for glory, and he’s not some rabid creature lost in bloodlust. He’s demanding that his people not be forgotten. Jaskier’s heart breaks. Eskel thinks they’re all monsters. Lambert’s relationship with their Path is so violent and difficult for him to understand that the mere broaching of the topic makes him run away. An animal doesn’t consider itself worthy of a legacy. A monster doesn’t have a place in the world. Oh. <em>Oh</em>.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s just trying to carve out a place for his brothers to be <em>human</em>.</p><p class="p1">For the first time since it’s happened Jaskier curses his curse. Up until this point he’d been annoyed, frustrated, a little upset, but now. Now he’s livid. Now he feels like something’s been stolen from him. Something important. He’ll never know if he would have fallen willingly. He would have. He believes he would have.</p><p class="p1">He would have loved Geralt in any time, without the help of majick, with his entire being. He knows that he would have loved him.</p><p class="p1">Any other man and Jaskier would have crawled into his lap and reached out to taste. Would Geralt taste like whiskey? Would Jaskier be able to locate that sour hint of lemon? He wants to know but it’s not <em>his</em>. Jaskier clears his throat and sets down his mug. The furs fall from his shoulders entirely and he doesn’t look back to Geralt because he might not be able to ignore this mounting pressure.</p><p class="p1">It’s not his, it’s not his,<em> it’s not fucking his</em>.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier wears a thick band of silver on his ring finger on his right hand and he twists it around and around. The simple action, the feeling of the inscription inside scratching at his skin soothes him. He wants to cry, he’s been so stupid. Witchers aren’t noble heroes and they’re not stoic knights. They’re a fucking tragedy.</p><p class="p1">“Why did you come here tonight, Geralt?” He asks the pair of empty mugs on his coffee table and watches the way the shadows from the fire dance.</p><p class="p1">“I.” Geralt hesitates. His voice is quiet, and strained, and there’s something in it that makes Jaskier want to reach out and comfort him. “I wanted to thank you.” Jaskier blinks, confused, and it takes some time to readjust his focus, to swallow down everything he wants to express.</p><p class="p1">“Thank me?” Jaskier shouldn’t be thanked, he needs to apologize. He’d come here to exploit the witcher’s grand stories of monster slaying to write a couple of exciting ditties and maybe an epic ballad or two, playing up all the strength, the bravery, the recusing of small towns hunted like cattle. It’s not like that at all. He’s exploiting people who are facing the last of their line, driven to near extinction by the very people they’ve spent their entire existence protecting.</p><p class="p1">How long do witchers live? How long do they have to endure?</p><p class="p1">“Hm. It’s late.” Geralt shifts to leave and Jaskier feels a lightning bolt of fear. He sits up, pulling his legs under him. He’s drunk, and the stench of wildflowers is ungodly, and he’s heartbroken a little, and he’s been so fucking stupid, and it’s not <em>his</em> but it’s his <em>now</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt,” Jaskier crowds into his space, one hand grabbing a hold of Geralt’s arm, the other one resting on Geralt’s thigh to balance himself from his sudden push forward. He’s gone from being feet away to just inches in seconds and the sudden proximity is a little overwhelming. The scent of him, the warmth of him, leather and whiskey and something clean. Jaskier’s entire body is thrumming with the shock of this contact, his chest fit to burst from the curse. It feels like he’s being squeezed in from all sides, suddenly aching for more. His hands are shaking.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier takes his hand from Geralt’s thigh and curls it around his jaw, gently trying to coax him into looking at him. Geralt’s entire body tenses under his touch and he resists for a moment before allowing Jaskier’s hand to move him, meeting his gaze.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t hide from me.” Jaskier doesn’t want to have to go another week without seeing him. He hadn’t noticed but he’d been holding his breath, waiting, wanting. He knows he sounds desperate, but he feels it, too.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier.” Geralt’s grinding his teeth, he looks tense, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t push Jaskier away, and he doesn’t close the space between them. Jaskier’s only had a finger of whiskey, maybe two, nothing. But his body feels heavy, he feels out of his mind a little, and maybe he really should have fought the curse earlier rather than just letting himself sink into it. This sudden bone deep fear that Geralt will leave, that he’ll have to go another week without seeing him, it can’t possibly be his.</p><p class="p1">He has always been stupidly quick to fall in love.</p><p class="p1">“Why thank me?” Jaskier can only manage a whisper, desperate to keep Geralt here just a moment longer. It feels like his entire body is shaking under the weight of this thing, the thrumming in his forearms getting stronger, traveling throughout his entire body. He bites his lip to prevent himself from doing anything too stupid, but his thumb does move of his’s own accord. He’s stroking Geralt’s cheek, gentle, wanting. Obvious and shameless, he stares at Geralt’s mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Your music.” Jaskier huffs in surprise, smiling, and he thinks he might cry. Geralt looks more angry than anything else, such a strange contrast to the gentleness of his tone, the way he’s allowing Jaskier to hold onto him, keep him still, keep him close. Geralt likes him. It hits him harder than any other blow he’s felt tonight. Geralt’s staring at his mouth, watching the way he licks his lower lip to soothe the ache from his teeth.</p><p class="p1">Geralt fucking <em>likes</em> him.</p><p class="p1">“Why, Geralt, you’re just a romantic under all that muscle.” Jaskier says it to Geralt’s mouth, unable to look away from his pink lips. They’re coated in spit, he’d missed it whenever Geralt licked them. There’s hardly any space left between them, it would be so easy to tilt his head, capture that mouth with his own.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier has the wild thought that there’s not enough oxygen between the two of them. The air suddenly feels so thin. Slowly Geralt’s hands capture his wrists, a solid weight. The gentle touch is enough to make him groan before he can bite it back, breathing in sharply. His entire body is lighting up with pleasure from such a simple, casual touch. Every single touch, every thrum of tingling electricity shoots directly to his cock.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier tilts his head to the side, mouth open, and he bumps his nose against Geralt’s, a gentle invitation.</p><p class="p1">“Get some sleep, Jaskier.” Jaskier can almost feel Geralt’s lips forming the shapes of his words they’re so close. He pushes Jaskier’s hands away, a gentle pressure, a quiet request. Jaskier allows it, letting Geralt lean away from him, but gods he doesn’t fucking want that at all. Geralt doesn’t let go of his wrists, though, just holds them in his hands. He’s still so close but he feels a million miles away. An entire ocean separates them.</p><p class="p1">“I want to. <em>You</em> want to. Why not?” Jaskier doesn’t lean in any closer, just glances back and forth between Geralt’s eyes and his mouth. It’s clear as day that Geralt wants this, so why does he keep trying to leave?</p><p class="p1">“You don’t actually want this.” Jaskier rolls his eyes and leans back, his hands slipping from Geralt’s grip easily. He has to respect this, no matter how the sudden loss of his touch to his skin makes him want to cry. It’s confusing and he suddenly feels cold and empty. Probably not great for him to go from that overwhelming pleasure to nothing in no time. Jaskier grips his thighs and digs his fingers in and the pressure helps to ground him again.</p><p class="p1">“Bullshit, Geralt.” He was trying to find his usual mischievous tone but he ends up sounding more petulant than anything else. “I’m a grown fucking man, I can tell the difference between what I want and what some stupid curse is making me do.” Geralt stands up, mugs in hand, and shoots him a sarcastic expression.</p><p class="p1">“Can you?” Jaskier doesn’t pout because he <em>is</em> a grown fucking man and it would be childish to pout when an unbelievably attractive man tells him ‘no’. He falls back onto the couch, laying down fully, and wraps the furs around his body. He’s fucking freezing. He spins the ring around his finger for a distraction and doesn’t watch Geralt leave.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t let himself cry until he hears the soft footsteps of Geralt leaving. There are so many emotions flying around in his chest, his thoughts are racing, and it’s so much easier to cry than it is to try and card through it all. He’s too exhausted to try to make sense of it, to understand it all.</p><p class="p1"><em>Can he? </em>He isn’t so sure all of a sudden.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt locks the door, heart pounding. This had been a mistake. Exhaustion weighs down on him, and the burn of the whiskey is still on his tongue, warming his throat, but it hadn’t been nearly enough.</p><p class="p1">It wasn’t enough to allow him to take what Jaskier offered.</p><p class="p1">It was nice, though, for a while. Sitting with him. It was comforting to sit next to a human who didn’t reek of fear, who wanted him there. He smelled amazing, and he looked so comfortable around him, and he was shockingly smart and breathtakingly gorgeous.</p><p class="p1">He’s cursed. He doesn’t actually want him there. This had been cruel, and selfish.</p><p class="p1">He’s still staring at the door, not able to leave yet. He can hear Jaskier’s heart beat, his breathing. All those stories of what Jaskier’s been getting up to, combined with the shit storm that was their first day engaged in peace talks, the building anticipation of catching his scent but never fucking seeing him, it all led him here. Avoiding him was probably part of the mistake. Not seeing him for so long, and wanting to, and denying that he did, made it impossible to deny himself this comfort tonight. Just one hour with his husband.</p><p class="p1"><em>Selfish</em>.</p><p class="p1">He’s been spending too much time under the judgmental eye of Eskel, that’s what this is.</p><p class="p1">Geralt pushes away from the door and walks down to his own rooms. It’s powerful majick, a fucking love potion, he shouldn’t have come. Cruel. Selfish.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Don’t hide from me.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">He smelled Ciri in that room. The scent of her still hung in the air, faint, but there. Unmistakable. Little brat, sneaking into his rooms. She probably stole that music from him, too; going through his stuff when he’s gone during the mornings. Geralt focuses on this line of thought. It’s easier to deal with. There’s a clear set of rules here, he knows who he’s supposed to be, how he’s supposed to act, what’s expected of this situation. He stuffs down his uncertainty, his desire, his confusion, and focuses on his anger with Ciri. It’s clear, simple, easy.</p><p class="p1">There is no destiny, there is no power sending people to him like presents. No one sent Jaskier into his Keep, fucked up under a fae love potion, taunting him, teasing him, making him want. No matter what Eskel seems to believe, the romantic bastard, Jaskier is just a cursed kid with no sense of self preservation. He needs to leave him the fuck alone.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier being here, bound to him, is a mess. Because life is a mess. Nothing more.</p><p class="p1">He’s going to have to deal with Ciri in the morning. It’s stupidly dangerous, sneaking into Jaskier’s rooms. He could show up at any time, and it’s not like he won’t recognize her. The entire Continent has been searching for her, like she’s suddenly some mythical beauty who’s return to court will save all of Cintra. She should be allowed her time to grieve, to pull herself together, in peace, at home. Safe. Jaskier is the one threat to her safety here and he’s already told her that, she’d promised to stay away, and here she is. Sneaking around in his rooms and taking his shit. It’s almost like she wants to torture Geralt.</p><p class="p1">Does she resent him for taking her away from court? It’s not like she’s never been in courts. She’d grown up in them for eight years. The familiar, bone deep fear that he’s fucking up, he’s ruining Ciri, flares it’s ugly head and Geralt quickens his pace and changes his course.</p><p class="p1">He should talk to Yen. It can’t be that late (the moon is high in the sky, it’s very late), she’ll probably still be awake. Even if she isn’t, she’s used to this shit by now. This isn’t the first time he’s barged into her rooms worried half to death about Ciri. He was never meant to be a father, dammit, he has no idea how to do this. He storms down the hallways, stomping around, too angry. His mind is racing. Anger. Loss. Frustration. Fear. They’re all mixed in together and it’s not an abnormal experience but it’s been a while since they’ve all bubbled up like this. Overwhelming him like this.</p><p class="p1">He can see Yen’s door and if this were maybe two years ago he would’ve pounded his fists on the door in a blind rage. Near feral and scratching at the wood, desperate to swallow down the fear he’s never been good at handling.</p><p class="p1">But it has been two years, and he’s been working on this. Seventy fucking years of work, he should be better at this by now. He takes in a deep breath and presses himself into the wall, hoping that the cool stone on his forehead will help to ground him.</p><p class="p1">Out. In, out. In, out. In. Out.</p><p class="p1">Anger. The easiest emotion to deal with. Loss. Jaskier was providing something he couldn’t. And he’d wanted to, he wished he could, he’d tried to. Frustration. Jaskier has overwhelmed this thoughts. He’s everywhere, and he wants him in a way he hasn’t wanted someone in a long time. And he can’t fucking do anything about it because of this stupid curse.</p><p class="p1">Fear. Ciri isn’t happy here. Ciri doesn’t want to be here. He’s fucking up.</p><p class="p1">The anger overwhelms him. After all this time and he still can’t feel fear so freely, so deeply, the ice cold emotion pouring into his veins, pulling his body apart like glass shards, and not default to his anger. It’s a deep seated instinct, trained into them. The fear is a warning, the anger is the reaction. It’s a hell of a lot harder to kill an angry witcher than a frightened one.</p><p class="p1">He’s pounding on Yen’s door, far too loud, and completely unable to control himself. Calm down. It’s just fear, <em>calm down</em>. But he can’t. All he can think of is Ciri, having to fight even more wars just to keep her. Having to fight wars to keep her somewhere she doesn’t want to be. Ciri’s hatred, her regret at having a witcher for a father. His fear twists in his gut, freezing cold, and he continues to slam his fist.</p><p class="p1">His arm is suddenly stopped mid swing. He can feel the heat surrounding him, squeezing him, sparking with static. He snarls, breathing hard, his chest rolling with his building growl. <em>Calm down</em>. He lifts his other arm to continue his banging and that stops mid-air, too. Before he can even land the first punch. The door swings open and Yennefer is standing in the doorway with a look in her eyes nothing short of murderous.</p><p class="p1">Maybe it’s the tight hold on his arms, maybe it’s the familiar safety of Yen glowering, maybe it’s the almost painful electricity in the air, hot and heavy. No matter what it ends up being, Geralt’s anger snaps and he can finally take a deep breath.</p><p class="p1">“Yen.” Geralt’s voice sounds wrecked and he bites back all the words he wants to say because of it. She’s wearing a familiar robe, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. She smells like sex. Geralt tilts his head, confusion dawning on him. It helps him calm down, helps him to regulate his breathing, helps to distract him from his ice cold fear. He wasn’t feral, nowhere close, but he could feel it bubbling up in his gut. It would have been easy to fall into it, to let his base nature take over and smother his human need for comfort.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, what the fuck?” She’s going to kill him and he’s earned it.</p><p class="p1">“I’m going to kill her.” Yen’s expression doesn’t change for a long time. She just continues to glower. Geralt’s arms are still hanging in the air, impossible to move, and Geralt doesn’t know what expression he’s making but it seems to finally break through her rage. His arms are suddenly free.</p><p class="p1">“I told you not to tell her about him. Of course it would only make her more curious. She’s a spoiled brat and it’s <em>your</em> fault.” Geralt sighs rotating his arms to release the tension in them, encouraging the return of blood flow. Ciri <em>is</em> spoiled, but she’s also deeply empathetic, and kind. He knows Yen doesn’t mean it unkindly, she’s just been dragged to her door in the middle of the night by a half feral witcher.</p><p class="p1">“You’re just as much to blame for that.” Yen shrugs, a silent agreement, rolling her eyes and walking back into her rooms. She hasn’t closed the door in his face so he follows after her, gently closing the door behind him. He stands by the door, watching her grab the kettle from its shelf and a jar of tea. He’s welcomed, quietly being allowed this moment of fear. No judgement, no hatred, no fear. It soothes him, calms him.</p><p class="p1">Geralt wrinkles his nose, she’s picked the lavender one. He knows she only drinks it to bother him, the scent of it is so strong it usually sends him into a sneezing fit sooner or later. He doesn’t say anything, though, because anytime he does she makes a cup for him and shoves it in his hands and glares at him until he’s drank it all.</p><p class="p1">Maybe the smell of wildflowers, cloying and still trapped in the back of his throat, was even to blunt his nose so the lavender tea won’t be so horrid this time.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt?” Triss walks into the room rubbing at her eyes. She’s wearing a nightgown, but she’s also gone through the extra effort of layering it with a robe, far more modest than Yen. Geralt glances at Yen with an apologetic tilt to his mouth and she just keeps on glowering. Have they been hiding this, or is it just a casual thing? Or has he just been a shit friend lately? It’s probably that one.</p><p class="p1">“Triss. Sorry to wake you.” Triss smiles and the heat in here eyes is enough to make Geralt glance away from her. She knew damn well that Geralt could smell their night on them and for all her gentleness Triss has never once been timid. She smacks a kiss onto Yen’s cheek with a loud pop and takes the kettle from the counter. She sits down in front of the hearth and hangs the kettle on the hook before tossing in another log to rise the heat some while Yen pulls down a third mug. Geralt tries not to frown at the sight of it. </p><p class="p1">“Well, no point in lingering at the door, Geralt. Come sit.” Triss waves him over to the couch and he walks a few steps behind Yen. It occurs to him that he was carrying two mugs of his own earlier, where had put them? He watches Yen set the mugs down on the small table as he sits before she goes back to collect a small jar of sugar and another of cream.</p><p class="p1">“Triss, do you want something to nosh on?” Triss stifles a yawn as she looks over to Yen and nods. This is so domestic, so peaceful, he shouldn’t have come here. Geralt stares at his hands in his lap and broods to himself, working up the courage to apologize and leave already until he hears the gentle clinking of Yen setting down a platter before sitting next to Triss on the floor.</p><p class="p1">“Hand me one of those cushions, will you, Geralt?” Geralt looks around on the couch for the dusty pink velvet cushion he knows Yen prefers and when he turns around to hand it off to her he notices the jar of marmalade siting in front of him. And Yen is using a long pair of tongs to toast a thick slice of bread. He relaxes at the sight of Yen quietly preparing him an old favorite treat. Triss takes the cushion from his hands and sets it in Yen’s lap for her.</p><p class="p1">It’s surreal. Sitting in her rooms, watching her make him toast, being allowed to take up space, and have preferences, and ask for help. Even with Triss here, even when he’d interrupted an evening with a couple. Sure he’d have to drink a floral tea that would ruin the shared taste of whiskey and lemon, but he’d also be able to chase it away with the sticky sweet flavor of orange marmalade.</p><p class="p1">It’s been almost seventy years and he still forgets he’s allowed these moments.</p><p class="p1">“So, Ciri’s managed to get herself into even more trouble, has she?” Geralt drops his head in his hands. After all these years it’s still so hard for him to admit to his emotions, his needs. Neither of them pressure him to speak, quietly picking at the bowl of nuts and fruits that Yen brought over along with Geralt’s marmalade. He takes in a deep breath.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier’s room smelled like her. She’s been in his rooms and I’m fairly certain she’s been stealing his sheet music.” Yen huffs and Geralt looks up in time to see her smirk before she composes herself.</p><p class="p1">“That’s all? That’s why you were trying to beat my door down in the middle of the night?” Triss throws Yen an unamused pout before giving Geralt a reassuring nod, making a gesture with her hand for him to go on.</p><p class="p1">“She was never supposed to be here full time. She’s a princess, not a witcher.” Geralt heaves a sigh and drops his head to the back of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s not happy here and I’m fucking this up.” There’s a long silence until Yen speaks again, her tone belying all the laughter she’s trying to hold back.</p><p class="p1">“And you got all that from her sneaking into your husband’s rooms during the day to rifle through his shit?” Yen shrugs when Triss shoots her a glare for this comment. Geralt grinds his teeth but takes a moment to mull over what she’s said.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, she’s just curious.” Triss says evenly, readying a thick towel for when the teapot starts to whistle.</p><p class="p1">“Why are you so worried about this? It’s nothing worse than what she’s done in the past.” Yen plops his toast onto the plate, a little burnt on one side, and pushes it towards him. He’s always preferred it a bit burnt in all honesty. </p><p class="p1">“Jaskier’s a fucking bard, his entire trade is running his mouth. Everyone in the fucking Continent is looking for Ciri. The moment news breaks out that she’s here we’ll.” Geralt takes the knife Yen hands him and opens the jar. Triss pulls the kettle down and sets it on the towel before preparing the teapot with the lavender tea. “We’ll probably end up having to fight the bloody war I’m working so hard to not have to fight. There’s no way they’ll believe that Ciri belongs to me. It’ll only make it that much easier for everyone to believe that we’re the ones who attempted to overthrow Cintra.” Geral tcloses his eyes and lets out a long, shaking breath.</p><p class="p1">“They’ll try to take her from me.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Geralt, I-”</p><p class="p1">“Then we’ll kill him before he has the chance to tell anyone she’s here. What’s the big deal?” Yen interrupts Triss and she earns a glare from the both of them for it. Yen just shrugs and drops one cube of sugar in Triss’s mug and two in Geralt’s. She’s never been one for sweets.</p><p class="p1">“It would probably be best to start out by asking her why she’s doing this. Maybe she’ll surprise you.” Triss glances back and forth between the two of them as she says it. From what Geralt knows about Yen’s childhood, she’s had just as rough, if not rougher, of a go of it than he has. What Triss suggests is radically different from what either of them have ever experienced. She pours the hot water into the teapot, unaware of the dubious looks she gets from the both of them.</p><p class="p1">“She’s a child, Geralt. She needs someone to look out for her.” Triss leans forward, gently gripping his forearm in comfort. “You’re doing a fantastic job. She’s already so much better after only four years. She’s strong and she’s smart. She probably has a good reason for doing this.” It’s a comforting thought, he’d like it if that were the case.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be there with you, during breakfast, if you’d like.” Yen smiles sweetly at Triss as she starts to pour out the tea. It’s nice to see her so at ease with someone else. They sit close to eachother, thighs and shoulders bumping. Geralt’s a little awed to realize that he really has gotten better at this. No yelling at people, no pushing them away, no finding the worst things he could say to make them hurt the way he hurts. He allows himself a moment to be proud.</p><p class="p1">“No. I think I should talk to her alone. No use in making her feel like we’re both against her.” Yen nods. He can trust himself not to yell at her. That first year of having her back, the look in her eyes, the never ending stream of silent tears. He could never yell at her. Yen pushes a mug to Geralt. She’s stopped glaring at him but he knows he isn’t going to get away with not drinking it. He takes it in hand and glances at it, frowning.</p><p class="p1">“You really are doing a wonderful job with her, Geralt. She adores you. You’re going to have to figure out how to shut up that little demon in your ear before you end up sabotaging what you have with her.” Geralt nods, Yen’s right. Ciri has always adored him, even as a kid when she only visited during the winter she was always in his arms or on his lap, asleep during meetings or listening to him read to her in the evenings. Pavetta never felt threatened by her love for him. <em>‘Of course she loves you, destiny gave you to her to protect her. Even one so small can see it.’</em>Emhyr never seemed to be as comfortable in the Keep as Pavetta was.</p><p class="p1">“Now, since you’re here, lets talk about Jaskier.” Geralt tenses. He’d really been hoping they could have just not talked about Geralt being in Jaskier’s room tonight. Yen sets her tea down and gets up, walking over to her desk to pull a small stack of papers out from a drawer. Would it be an invasion of Jaskier’s privacy to allow Triss to stay for this conversation?</p><p class="p1">“Would you like for me to leave, Geralt?” Geralt averts his gaze from her, worried that he’d made her feel unwelcome.</p><p class="p1">“She already knows about everything. I needed her help with a good amount of the research.” Yen plops the papers down in front of Geralt before sitting back down next to Triss, leaning so that she’s pressed against her, a silent demand for her to stay. Geralt shakes his head, looking back at Triss.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you for helping with this.” Triss just smiles while Geralt puts his tea down. The scent of the tea is still strong but he was right, the intensity of it is blunted. He hasn’t felt the need to sneeze once.</p><p class="p1">“There’s no solid information about this curse. Banned majicks are particularly hard to research because any work that includes information about it becomes banned right along with it. And this one is particularly old. From what I could find there’s only a few options left to us.” Geralt unties the string holding the papers together carefully and begins to sift through them. There are diagrams, several different recipes, collected stories that he barely spares a second glance to. “You’re not going to like any of them.” Geralt frowns at that, glancing up to see Yen’s purposefully expressionless face.</p><p class="p1">“Do any of them actually break the curse?”</p><p class="p1">“Two of them do.” Geralt grinds his teeth, that all too familiar annoyance bubbling up. He rests his chin in his hand, curling his knuckles to cover his mouth and prevent himself from saying anything rash. He breathes in, breathes out, nods. “First option is the dumbest, but it’s not unheard of.” If Geralt weren’t looking right at her he’d be able to hear her rolling her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“True love’s kiss.” Geralt snorts, ready to berate her for not taking this seriously with a smile before he sees their faces. They’re not kidding.</p><p class="p1">“You’re kidding.” Yen looks on edge, ready to defend herself, but Triss’s hand goes to rest on her thigh and Yen hesitates. She softens around the edges and when she speaks Geralt can’t hear the tension he can see.</p><p class="p1">“It’s been known to happen, Geralt. And the fae love to use it as a catch all. All the different ways something like that can fuck with humans’ lives, it’s irresistible for them.” Geralt’s not sold on it, it’s children’s stories. Nothing more than a sugar sweet dream to make believe all of life’s miseries can be so easily conquered.</p><p class="p1">“And the other one?”</p><p class="p1">“The second option is brute force. The curse is weak, and it’s only going to get weaker, so it’s not impossible that I’ll be able to snap it. But, there’s a catch, and it’s connected to the third option.” Geralt’s mind sputters for a moment, distracted.<em> ‘I can tell the difference between what I want and what some stupid curse is making me do’</em>.</p><p class="p1">Can he?</p><p class="p1">“How weak?” Yen raises an eyebrow, staring at him cooly. Her gaze is too knowing but Geralt holds it. Too curious to let this slip by. He vaguely remembers her telling him it was weak, when she’d first met Jaskier, but he was more worried about the news that his body was going to pop under the pressure to really focus on the ‘it’s weak’ part. Now that he’s been reminded of it, he’s interested to know exactly how weak.</p><p class="p1">“Enough. He can still tell how the curse is trying to manipulate him.” Yen hesitates, glancing to Triss for a moment. A little thrill of fear runs down Geralt’s spine but he keeps his lips pressed thin, silent. “The chaos in him is volatile. It’s not likely that he’ll be able to for long.” Geralt’s hands are fists. He’s given up on looking through the papers she’s handed him of her research. He’s staring at them, but he isn’t seeing them. He’s worried for Jaskier. It’s his fault he’s facing this.</p><p class="p1">“Okay. What’s the fucking catch?” Geralt scrubs his hand over his face, exhaustion starting to set in.</p><p class="p1">“I can reinforce the majick.” That’s enough to snap Geralt from his thoughts. Geralt crosses his arms, sits back into his seat, glaring.</p><p class="p1">“That’s the opposite of a cure, Yen.” She rolls her eyes, throwing a look at him like he’s the asshole.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? I didn’t realize, Geralt. My apologies.” Triss tries to hide a smile in her mug, her hand squeezing Yen’s thigh once more. “If I don’t reinforce it, the chaos trapped inside him <em>will</em> kill him. Majick is harnessed chaos and it’s a living thing, it needs paths to walk or it will fester like a wound. A shit sorceress won’t know to establish those boundaries and the chaos she uses to build the spell can change in unexpected ways. In this case, from what I could tell when I first met him, it’s simply looking to return back to the well it was pulled from.”</p><p class="p1">“If the sorceress was so shit than how come you can’t brute force your way through breaking it?” Yen pinches the bridge of her nose while Triss reaches over to the pile of papers and begins flipping through them herself.</p><p class="p1">“It’s more complicated than that. If I don’t break the curse within the first few minutes than the chaos in the curse will begin merging with mine, siphoning it off to reinforce itself naturally. That’s even more dangerous because it’ll just speed up the process of ripping Jaskier’s body apart.” Geralt glares down at his mug of tea, cool now. There are bits of the flower settled at the bottom. Triss and Yen are quiet while he works through what Yen’s told him, just the crinkle of the fire and the soft shuffling of the papers and the almost quiet sipping.</p><p class="p1">“There’s no other option?” Yen keeps her mouth shut and Triss glances between them. There’s clearly something they don’t want to tell him. “Triss?” Triss looks up at him, eyes just a little wider than usual. She averts her eyes back to the papers, shoulders dropping.</p><p class="p1">“There is something.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Triss</em>.” Yen gives her a cutting look, something that holds enough fire that Geralt would hesitate under it. Triss doesn’t even bother to look at her.</p><p class="p1">“It is an option, Yen. He deserves to know.” Geralt grinds his teeth, hands curling into tight fists, but he holds his tongue. He suffers a long, tense silence while Yen and Triss have their own silent conversation and he doesn’t want Yen to direct her ire at him for interrupting it. Eventually Yen rolls her eyes, working her jaw with just as much force as Geralt is.</p><p class="p1">“You could find the fae and ask. Any fae of middling rank would be able to break it more than easily enough.” Well, that explains why Yen wouldn’t have wanted to mention it as an option. Direct interactions with the fae is an incredibly dangerous idea, but it’s also the most feasible option Yen has presented him with. There are plenty of rumors about areas fae prefer to frequent. Finding areas where the veil is thin wouldn’t be much harder. Figuring out how to get a fae to agree to fulfilling such a large favor without getting spirited away, or getting someone else spirited away, or any other number of severe repercussions. Well, that isn’t easy at all.</p><p class="p1">“These are some shit options.” Yen smiles, huffing out a laugh but Triss just nods in agreement, looking grave.</p><p class="p1">“Have you spoken to Jaskier about any of this, yet?” Yen shakes her head, no. “Talk to him. It’s his body, his curse, his decision.”</p><p class="p1">“Do you want me to tell him about the last option?” Geralt frowns. It’s dangerous, and stupid, but it’s also the best chance Jaskier has of breaking his curse. He’s tempted to hold this information back from him. The growing desire in him to own, protect, provide is what gives him pause. He won’t touch him, but he doesn’t want to loose him, either. He’s made space for himself here, something he’d notice once he’s gone.</p><p class="p1">“Tell him. It’s not our place to take his choice away from him.” It’s all about choice. Everything he’s done, all he’s wanted to provide his people with, is a choice.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt sits at the table and waits. He’d not slept well, mind racing with all the different ways this conversation could blow up in his face. All the different ways he could fuck this up. It’s the first time Ciri’s managed to get herself into some serious trouble. Trouble that has him struggling to swallow his fear.</p><p class="p1">Why did you do this? Why did you lie to me? Why take this risk? Tell me, talk to me, make me understand.</p><p class="p1">Geralt thinks it over and over again, like a mantra, hoping that if he does it long enough then when he sees Ciri he won’t default to his rage. He’s never been mad at her before. Frustrated, upset, even disappointed once, but never angry. She’s never done anything to make him angry before.</p><p class="p1">Ciri’s footsteps are unmistakable. She sounds tired, still breathing a little harder from her training. He can smell the sweat on her skin, hear the rumble of her stomach. Geralt rolls his neck, popping some of the joints and relieving none of the pressure. He starts to pile his plate, just as much as he usually does despite the nausea churning in his belly.</p><p class="p1">“Morning Uncle Geralt.” Ciri falls into her chair and takes a slow sip of her watered down coffee. He’d kept it near boiling for her because she preferred it hot as possible. Maybe someone told her that’s how her father took his coffee, maybe she just naturally liked it that way. She is an endless well of new things to find, new things to learn. Every morning it seems she wakes up a new person that Geralt has to learn about all over again.</p><p class="p1">“Cirilla.” Ciri freezes, eyes wide. She lowers her coffee and sits up straight and doesn’t say a damn thing. She doesn’t smell of fear, but her body heat spikes, and she’s already sweating but he knows she’s sweating more. Still, there’s not a hint of fear. Good, good. That’s good that she takes him seriously but doesn’t fear him.</p><p class="p1">“Why did you lie to me?” His stomach is twisted in knots and he crosses his arms in an attempt to keep his emotions inside for right now. Ciri’s staring at her empty plate, hands resting on the table, fingers splayed.</p><p class="p1">“I just wanted to know him.” Geralt has to put in some serious effort to stuff down his anger. The two of them might be related they’re both so fucking daft.</p><p class="p1">“Did you not understand why I said you couldn’t?” Ciri glances up at him, unmoving, eyes wide, chewing on her bottom lip in worry. She nods.</p><p class="p1">“If the Northern Kingdoms find out about me, I won’t have a choice. I’ll have to go back to court and the people around me will see me as a pawn, not a person.” He really has gone soft. The tremor in her voice, the wide whites of her eyes, it makes him melt. He wants nothing more than to gather her up in his arms and forgive her. He still has that trill of fear in his gut, but he’s not angry anymore. Facing her makes it easy for him to face himself. He’s scared to loose her and, at least for now, she’s scared to leave. It eases his fear some. She's going to have to leave sooner or later, but at least she's not trying to leave just yet. There was a time when her tiny little body nearly fit into the palm of his hand.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri.” Geralt hesitates, flooded with worry. He’s never once bothered to ask her if she wants to be here. He’d just assumed. “Are you happy here?” Ciri snaps her head up, looking directly at him, lip trembling, eyes glassy.</p><p class="p1">“I just wanted to get to know him a little. He’s your husband I just.” Geralt can smell her fear now, slowly building, pouring off of her. It’s worrying and he uncrosses his arms and leans forward, suddenly worried for her. “I’m sorry, please. I can be better.” </p><p class="p1">“Be better? What are you talking about?” Geralt feels like he’s missing something here, like they’re having two different conversations somehow. Ciri’s hands curl into fists and her breathing speeds up. She looks tightly wound and ready to burst. Where did all this tension come from? This is pent up energy, a storm that’s been brewing for gods know how long. How has this happened with him noticing it?</p><p class="p1">“I really am sorry. I just couldn’t stop thinking about.” Ciri shuffles her weight around, pushing her hair back from her face, wiping at her eyes to dry the unshed tears. Geralt feels lost, confused, blindsighted. He has the terrifying thought that Ciri is growing up. She’s her own person, with depth and experiences and maybe even secrets. “I just wish you could have loved him. You deserve a marriage that’s more than politics, Uncle Geralt.” Geralt’s shocked, honestly. He smiles at her, touched, and he can see that she’s serious. Her shoulders are squared, she looks him right in the eye, she’s using her ‘I’m a princess, you can’t deny me’ voice. Of course she’s happy here, why would she ever question that?</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Ciri. I am happy right now, here, with you. And Yen, and Eskel, and Triss. Even fucking Lambert.” It’s enough to surprise a laugh out of her, and she looks relaxed again. It eases Geralt’s worry. Geralt’s smile twists at the edges, a little bitterly, and his eyebrows furrow in worry. “Ciri you must know that I love you.” Ciri nods, looking bashful.</p><p class="p1">“I know, I just. You.” She hesitates, looking down at her feet. He can see more tears running down her cheeks but she keeps her breathing steady. She’s twisting her hands together in worry. “You weren’t supposed to take care of me full time.” She whispers it, eyes so full of worry and fear that it breaks Geralt’s little broken heart all over again. He grabs a hold of her hands and squeezes them tightly.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve conquered half the Continent to get you back, Ciri. If you asked me to give you the rest of it, I would.” Ciri smiles, bright and wide and shining.</p><p class="p1">“That’s a pretty big birthday present.” Geralt smiles, a little relieved. She’s growing up so fast. It’s amazing and terrifying and he hopes he can keep up with her. There used to be no thought he didn’t know, no secret she didn’t share with him in hushed whispers.</p><p class="p1">“Eat, little cub. No more sneaking into his rooms. I don’t trust that he won’t go telling the entire Continent about you if he ever sees you.” Her eyes go wide for a moment as she nods, agreeing to do so around a mouthful of food.</p><p class="p1">“It’s been more than a week. Have you still not decided if you can trust him?” Geralt curses himself for agreeing to let her meet him based on that caveat. He’d hoped she’d forget about it but, of course, it’s never easy.</p><p class="p1">“No, not yet. I barely see him.”</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">____________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s still picking the locks to leave. There’s never anyone guarding the door and no one’s ever pulled him aside to tell him to stop it. The most frustrating aspect of this is that every day the locks got harder and harder to pick. Jaskier asked Eskel about it on the fourth day he’d been here and Eskel just laughed.</p><p class="p1">“Probably Yen, testing you. It’s not often someone surprises her. She’s probably just curious.”</p><p class="p1">It takes him longer and longer to pick them but he doesn’t start to worry about the difficulty until the sixth day. The more complicated the lock the easier it is to fuck it up and he doesn’t want to end deadlocking it and trapping himself in his room until someone finally comes to kick it down.</p><p class="p1">“I swear to the gods Eskel, if I’m not here to meet you for breakfast by the time you’re done please come rescue me. She’s starting to pull out the hard shit.” Jaskier slips into the pool next to Eskel after setting a small platter of food on top of his journal. He’s found that too many witchers are willing to tell their best stories when they’re near melted into the boiling waters of the deeper pools and so he goes nowhere without it anymore.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Jaskier, you can’t bring food in here.” Eskel admonishes, nose scrunching but eyes still unopened, laid back in his usual position.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, hush. You’re the one who left me abandoned in my rooms. Besides I didn’t bring anything that would crumb.” Jaskier smacks at Coën’s hand when he reaches for a slice of cold meat. “Say <em>please</em>.” Coën rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Coën’s been the most forthcoming of all the witchers, more willing to admit to his emotions than any other Jaskier’s met in the short week he’s been here. While Jaskier’s busy blinking his eyes innocently at Coën, Eskel snatches up his own slice, already popping it into his mouth before Jaskier’s managed to notice.</p><p class="p1">“Why you little menace!” Jaskier can see Coën’s hand out of the corner of his eye so he just rolls his eyes and sinks back down into the pool. “You’re both horrid.” They chuckle at his expense for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“You already meeting your match with the locks, stow away? It’s only been a week.”</p><p class="p1">“I never claimed to be a master lock pick, Eskel. I only learned enough to get myself out of, and ironically back into, trouble.”</p><p class="p1">“Tell me, Sir Jaskier, what kind of trouble could one such as yourself get into regularly enough that it demanded learning a skill usually reserved for criminals?” Jaskier smiles, wide and mischievous.</p><p class="p1">“My dear Coën, there are oftentimes things more beautiful than you could imagine trapped behind a locked door.” Eskel laughs, loud, but Coën looks confused by the non answer.</p><p class="p1">“The little stow away’s a cad.” There’s a moment where Coën looks like he might attempt to be offended on Jaskier’s behalf at Eskel’s comment so Jaskier puts his hand on his shoulder to regain his attention.</p><p class="p1">“It’s true. Far too many well meaning Fathers locking up their daughters in an attempt to preserve their honor. A foolish idea, in my experience. I have met fewer virgins in my life than I have kind nobles.” Jaskier leans in a little closer, ignoring the ‘disappointed dad’ look Coën’s wearing, and lowers his voice conspiratorally. “Though if you ask me it’s never really been a father’s place to make such decisions in the first place. All this nonsense of purity is just another silly little rule the nobility have to make themselves feel superior.” Eskel laughs and Coën looks somehow even more upset.</p><p class="p1">“You sound even more like a cad now then you did two seconds ago, Jaskier. Be careful, Coën may just decide you haven’t a lick of honor left.” Eskel reaches for another slice of cold meats and Jaskier shoos him away.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve already had breakfast so stop trying to steal mine.” Jaskier begins to roll up one of the slices. “And it may make me sound like a cad, Eskel, but I know it to be true because I’ve had my way with many a son and their doors are never locked and no one ever tries to kill me because I’ve robbed their sons of <em>their</em> purity.” Jaskier turns to wink at Coën as he takes a bite of his breakfast.</p><p class="p1">“No, they just try to kill you because you’re a menace.” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows at Eskel. “We could probably raise an army of your bastards.” Jaskier scowls. His mind floods with several bitter comebacks but he bites his tongue.</p><p class="p1">“No, you couldn’t.” Eskel pauses at Jaskier’s tone, his smile faltering just a little. He hadn’t intended for his tone to be so bitter. He’s gone out of his way to ensure that his lovers don’t get saddled with child. He wants his freedom and they do, too. He’s learned that lesson.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier turns to Coën with an easy smile. Coën’s a few inches taller so it’s easier for him to look down at Jaskier with that lovely look of disappointment. The difference in height is only made worse by the fact that Jaskier is sitting low while Coën sits with his back straight.</p><p class="p1">“Well, Coën? Have you decided to give up on me entirely?” Jaskier’s only half kidding and some part of him is worried that this may be enough of a push to loose Coën’s respect entirely. Coën’s school maintained the knightly traditions that the witchers were originally founded on. Jaskier’s not sure how much of Coën’s lenienacy he’s going to get since he is not a witcher, and therefore, not his brother. Coën huffs out a laugh, moving his arm to wrap around Jaskier’s shoulders and jostle him some.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, you are, indeed, a cad. But you have proven yourself to be a very honorable man regardless.” Jaskier beams, he’s been enamored with Coën the moment he met him. He’s got this scarred eyebrow and an intricate tattoo on his head and he’s lithe. It was a surprise to see someone so slight compared to Eskel and Geralt, even Lambert seems to have more bulk to him than Coën. It must mean that the Wolf School tends to favor a more aggressive, offensive style of attack while the Griffon prefers something more stealthy. He’s assuming.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s fairly certain that Coën is the type to spend hours on his lovers, taking just as much pleasure from pleasuring as he himself did. He keeps that little fantasy to himself, though, because apparently no one in this damned Keep is ever going to fucking touch him. Except for Lambert, but at this point giving into the temptation would make the man absolutely unbearable to be around.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s visit last night is still haunting him and the second their easy conversation dies down Jaskier is incapable of chasing away his memories of it. It was so overwhelming, he should be thankful that Geralt left when he did. He’s still trying to parse it all out. How much of what he felt was his own? It seems like it’s all getting muddled together. And his touch, would the effects of the majick only get stronger?</p><p class="p1">Maybe it’s time to seek Yennefer out, talk to her about this. He’s starting to worry that the touch thing isn’t actually a part of the original curse. He takes in a deep breath and sets aside his breakfast to flip open his journal.</p><p class="p1">“It feels like the Keep is so empty these days. Are you not returning to the Path soon, Coën?” Jaskier glances back to Coën but he’s looking down into the pool. He looks deep in thought and Jaskier can hear Eskel sitting up and moving a little closer. Eskel gets nervous everytime he asks witchers about their relationship with the Path. After Lambert’s reaction, Jaskier’s realized not to ask just anybody, but Coën is Coën. Jaskier really doesn’t think he’ll have an averse reaction to the question. After his conversation with Geralt last night, everything he’d learned in that one hour, he’s desperate to know now more than ever.</p><p class="p1">When Coën answers he’s not looking at Jaskier. It seems like he might be talking to someone else in his memory. It’s sweet, or really fucking sad. Jaskier isn’t going to focus on figuring out which for right now.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve been training the new Griffon School for the past thirty-three years. Maybe I’m too much of a mother hen,” he glances at Jaskier with a rueful smile, “but I’ve spent the past one hundred years worrying about being the last of my School. There’s more than enough of us on the Path. I think my place is here.” Jaskier’s mouth falls open, shocked.</p><p class="p1">“You were the last of the Griffons?” There’s no point of reference for Jaskier to fully understand how Coën may feel, but it effects him deeply none the less. He must have been so lonely those past hundred years, terrified that his knowledge, his memories, his brothers, everything he is, would be lost without him.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, yes.” He turns to face Jaskier head on, now, his strange eyes bright and alert. He’s no longer talking to some memory, he’s talking right to Jaskier. “That’s why I came here the second I heard what Geralt was doing. I knew, quicker than anyone, what he was planning.” Jaskier smiles, awed. Coën might be the bravest man he’s ever met.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt gave you the chance to save your School.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, I offered Geralt the opportunity to give me the chance to save my school.” Coën nods and the look in his eyes speaks to the depth of his heart. Coën may always be lonely, he’s lost so many, but he’s still here. Still working to ensure that his people aren’t forgotten. Same as Geralt.</p><p class="p1">“Vesemir hasn’t left the Keep since you started up the trainee program, either. If anyone’s a mother hen, it’ll be him.” Eskel’s been spending his time clearing Jaskier’s plate for him, turned to his side so that he’s facing Jaskier. Jaskier realizes that he’s been bookended by witchers. He feels small despite his size, he’s a tall man and by no means weak, but also comforted. He feels safe here.</p><p class="p1">“Vesemir?” Jaskier doesn’t bother to ask the whole question, Eskel’s a smart man, he’ll get it.</p><p class="p1">“Vesemir taught us. He’s one of the few Wolves who survived the first attack on the Keep. The only one left now who was here before it.” Jaskier sucks in a long breath, slow and steady. He knows what Geralt told him, that he was ensuring a legacy, but had the witchers really been <em>this</em> close to the brink of extinction? It’s worse than if he’d been speaking to soldiers in the army. These men have had hundreds of years worth of loss. An impossible amount of time to suffer.</p><p class="p1">“Vesemir has been a great help to me. He’s already had to go through the process of figuring out how to raise the next generation of Wolves. He’s one of the only reasons why my School still exists.” Coën smiles, but it doesn’t quite touch his eyes.</p><p class="p1">“I have got to meet this Vesemir.” Eskel rests his chin on his hand, tracing his scar lazily with one of his fingers.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know, Jaskier. Vesemir is. Well. He.” Coën snorts, regaining Jaskier’s attention.</p><p class="p1">“He’s a grouchy old ass.” Coën winks at Jaskier. “Smartest man you’ll ever meet in this drafty old Keep, but old as balls and mean as hell.” Coën chuckles at his own, private joke, and Jaksier turns to see Eskel frowning at it. Jaskier wants to press the issue, but he knows better by now. Eskel will tell him eventually. The man has a tendency to pick up and put down conversations. When he’s ready to talk about Vesemir, or ready to introduce them, he’ll just say it, no preamble, no time wasted trying to remind him of this conversation. It keeps Jaskier on his toes, and it’s endearing the way Eskel’s mind turns.</p><p class="p1">Their conversation eases into a comfortable silence and Jaskier falls into composing. Time passes easily and he fills page after page with rough lyrics, outlines for his cycles, and rough ideas of their compositions. The conversations around him, even Eskel and Coën’s, have dimmed down to a low background while he pursues his craft. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this inspired, this clear in a direction, and he thinks he should spend an entire day or three dedicated to locking himself away in his rooms and really perfecting these songs. He hasn’t spent an entire day dedicated to his craft like this since his time in Oxenfurt. He hasn’t really had the opportunity to and he’s incredibly lucky that the Keep functions the way it does. If this were a normal court he’d be required to keep himself to whatever schedule was already in place before he arrived.</p><p class="p1">“Alright, stow away. Protect your journal I’m hopping out.” Jaskier’s already got his journal held above his head by the time Coën finishes calling him by his oh, <em>so</em>, very fucking cute nickname. He watches Coën walking away, water pouring down his body, until Eskel nudges him in the thigh with his feet.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, c’mon stow away. Makin’ me jealous.” Jaskier turns to him with a lascivious smirk, lowering his journal but not putting it on the floor. The ground is no longer trustworthy.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Eskel. You’ll always be my first love.” Eskel rolls his eyes and hops out of the pool, too.</p><p class="p1">“What do you have planned for the day?” Jaskier looks around the pools as Eskel dries off nearby. The baths are nearly empty. He knows that the halls and rooms won’t be nearly as full as they were when he’d first arrived. He’s got half a journal full of monster stories and a Keep occupied with witchers who have all either chosen to stay behind or can’t leave due to injuries or prior promises to assist with the trainees. There isn’t much left for him to do.</p><p class="p1">Other than chase after the more emotional truth of Geralt’s empire.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe I’ll visit Triss today.” Jaskier hops out of the pool, too, his journal tucked away under his arm for safe keeping and his pencil inbetween his teeth. “Wha ‘bow ooo?” Eskel smirks, toweling his hair, and it’s cute but Jaskier’s already been caught oogleing once today so he puts his stuff on a shelf before picking up his own towel, keeping his eyes to himself.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? Maybe that’s a good idea.” Eskel’s already putting his boots on, hair still damp, clothes soaking up small puddles from where he’d been less than thorough. How does that not drive him absolutely up the wall? Wait.</p><p class="p1">“What makes you say that’s a good idea?” Eskel shrugs, gathering up his clothes, and even Jaskier’s plate, up in silence. He’s hesitating, no -he’s nervous. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone in the Keep look nervous before. “Eskel?” He sighs, turning to look at Jaskier, but he’s incapable of meeting his gaze. He’s scratching at his scar again and this is the first time Jaskier’s seen him do it without feeling that curl of lust in his belly begging him to lick at the way it’s marred his lip.</p><p class="p1">“You should talk to her about your handfasting.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>\(^-^)/ ya'll I'm so excited for this chapter to finally be published. We gettin' there, oh boy, are we gettin' there. Please, leave a comment and let me know how you're doing, how you're liking it. I read them whenever I hit a wall and they help me work through it. I promise I read and appreciate every single one you guys leave! &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“You’re telling me this curse is going to<em> kill </em>me?” Jaskier is livid. He’s standing in Yennefer’s office, because of course this is where he ended up today, with one hand on his hip and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes are shut tight and he’s nearly shaking with rage. There’s fear under it, a lot of fear, but right now he’s angry and it’s much, much easier to be angry.</p><p class="p1">“Yes.” Yennefer’s voice is as cool and emotionless as ever. It makes him want to strangle her. At least she’s never once tried to mask the truth with platitudes or false kindness. It’s a cool balm to his red hot anger.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier had been walking towards Triss’s little area, dazed from what Eskel said. The bastard just walked off, too. He didn’t bother waiting around to see how Jaskier reacted and he certainly didn’t waste anytime running off despite how Jaskier chased after him, hopping into his pants, demanding he ‘<em>get the fuck back here and explain</em>’ himself.</p><p class="p1">So when Yennefer found him wandering the halls in his distracted daze, clothes uncomfortably damp, she tempted him into taking a detour to her office for a quick drying spell and a short conversation.</p><p class="p1">“And these are my only fucking options? Burst like a bubble or let you use your majick to turn me into the love sick shell the curse intended for me to be in the first place?” He’s not yelling at her per se, but he’s not exactly whispering either. He really should be trying harder to hold his emotions in, it’s not Yennefer’s fault he’s been so well and throughly fucked. She is actually trying to help, even if the only options she has for him are such shit. He’s been in this situation before, clawing at Yennefer when he really wanted to rip King Visimer II’s jugular out with his teeth. She’s an amazing woman for not once threatening to cut his tongue out.</p><p class="p1">“I think you’re forgetting the first option.” Jaskier scoffs, rolling his eyes. At least she hasn’t lost her sense of humor in the face of his rage.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, yeah, you’re so right, thank you! Great fucking help that is, Yennefer. Absolute bollocks.” Jaskier is a little bitter about that first option. He pauses at the sight of Yennefer’s expression, though. She’s almost smiling. It’s quite the surprise.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? The bard with rose colored glasses doesn’t believe in True Love’s Kiss? Fascinating.” Now she’s outright smiling and it’s actually quite beautiful. Jaskier huffs out a breath and lets his shoulders fall. He isn’t relaxed, but it does feel better to let go of that tension all the same.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, well. There are some things that are just too childish.” Her humor helps to calm him more than he expected. He’s still terrified, but his anger has ebbed some. It may be easier to be angry, but this fear needed to be dealt with sooner or later. This is the second time she’s allowed him to raise his voice at her and she doesn’t seem the type to allow a third to pass by without retaliation, much less a first. He’s been lucky that she’s found him nothing more than amusing thus far.</p><p class="p1">“There is a fourth option.” Yennefer already explained that the second and third options were basically the same. If brute forcing her way through the curse didn’t work she would have to move directly to reinforcing it before the curse had enough power to skip straight to bursting him. Jaskier tosses his hands in the air, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“Very well. What’s the <em>fourth</em> option?”</p><p class="p1">“You could try to find the fae and ask them to break it for you.” That gives Jaskier pause. He purses his lips and tilts his head, intrigued. She doesn’t look happy at all anymore, probably because it’s a terrible idea. He’s heard plenty of stories about the fae and not just the pretty ones.</p><p class="p1">“Oh?” Yennefer crosses her arms, tilting her chin up, looking down her nose at him. </p><p class="p1">“It’s a fucking stupid option. You’ll most likely never be allowed to leave, if they don’t just eat you the second you walk into their land.” Jaskier nods, dropping his eyes to the floor. Yes, it would most likely end in his death, but.</p><p class="p1">“Well. It’s the only option that allows me any type of freedom, isn’t it?” Jaskier clears his throat, running his hands over his face. He doesn’t want to cry in front of her, she’s so much a slab of ice that he thinks it would scare her more than anything else, but he’s so fucking scared.</p><p class="p1">“You would consider being a pet for the fae freedom?” Her voice is gentle now, quiet, soft. She’s trying. Gods, she’s actually trying to comfort him again and it’s always worse when she tries because he can hear it in her voice how uncomfortable she feels when she does it.</p><p class="p1">“More free than the alternative.” Jaskier drops his hands to his side, leaning back against the door in defeat. He is suddenly, deeply, exhausted. Yennefer actually looks somber. “Better to be a pet with a mind of my own than a shell reduced to one point.”</p><p class="p1">“You wouldn’t be without a mind, Jaskier.”</p><p class="p1">“No, I’d just be shackled and bound. A hole for him, more desperate than a fucking dog in heat for just the barest touch.” Yennefer doesn’t break his gaze and she doesn’t look like she pities him. She simply watches him, cooly, somber, unblinking.</p><p class="p1">“I’m a much more competent sorceress than you take me for.” She stands up and walks around her desk, sitting down in her overly large velvet chair. Jaskier can hear her open a drawer, the bottom one, and after a second he sees her drop two glasses onto the desk and dive back down. Jaskier watches her curiously as she returns with a bottle of vodka and she raises an eyebrow at him as she uncorks it. Well, about fucking time she makes good on his request.</p><p class="p1">“You would be able to change the nature of the curse as you reinforce it?” Jaskier walks over and scoots the chair in front of her desk closer, quietly watching her pour.</p><p class="p1">“Of course I fucking can.” She takes a moment to glare at him before moving to pour out her own glass. “I can leave space for you to still be your own man.” She picks up a glass and sets it in front of him, looking up to stare into his eyes with a terrifying intensity. “I would never shackle someone in such a way.” Jaskier can feel his eyes burn with tears and he bites his lip in order to stop himself from fucking crying. He nods, unwilling to trust his voice right now, and hopes that will be enough for her to understand how thankful he is for her effort.</p><p class="p1">They clink their glasses and Jaskier pauses to take a deep breath before he shoots it back. Yennefer’s already pouring out a second glass by the time he manages it. She grabs his glass from his hand while he breathes through the burn, eyes squeezed tight.</p><p class="p1">“Aw, little stow away.” Yennefer says his name fondly, with a nearly imperceptible chuckle in her tone. She’s fucking mocking him. Jaskier shakes his head.</p><p class="p1">“Melitele’s <em>fucking</em> cock, Yennefer. Where the fuck did you get that?” The look she gives him as she pours out another shot for him is one of pure glee.</p><p class="p1">“Lambert makes his own vodka. He’s actually quite good, though you are human. Might be a bit strong for you.” Yennefer hands him the second shot and Jaskier scowls down at it for a moment.</p><p class="p1">“Could’ve warned me beforehand.” Yennefer smirks, lifting her glass to him once more.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” Jaskier clinks his glass to hers and shoots it before his brain has a chance to catch up and stop him. It is absolutely fucking vile and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get his sense of smell back.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, are you trying to kill me before the curse can do it?” The bottle sits to the side, still uncorked, so he’s certain there will be another round. Yennefer doesn’t move to pour out the next round though and he’s thankful for it. He’s going to need some time to regain his footing. He hadn’t intended to start the day by getting absolutely shit faced, and he’d have laughed if anyone told him he’d be doing it with fucking Yennefer, but here he is.</p><p class="p1">“Has there been anything strange, Jaskier? Erratic emotions, an increase in static shocks, stubbing your toe more often?” Yennerfer twirls the glass in her hand, suddenly back to being cooly serious. Jaskier sighs, sitting back and twirling his ring around his finger absentmindedly, watching the movement of Yennefer’s hands. His throat burns, the scent of the vodka in his nostrils burns, and he can feel the heat of it burning in his chest, too.</p><p class="p1">“Is it normal for the curse to.” Jaskier huffs, hesitating. Once more he has to be completely vulnerable with Yennefer. A woman who’s very smile is so rare to draw out that the mere sight of it is enough to short circuit his brain. “When I touch Geralt.” He looks up at her, meeting her gaze. May as well face this head on. “I can feel electricity thrumming in my skin. It’s hot and it’s very fucking pleasant.” He smiles, tilting his head, raising an eyebrow. He can feel the vodka now, beginning to settle into his body, making things feel a little heavier, a little lighter, a little more fluid. Yennefer raises an eyebrow, interested.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? And this… sensation. Has it gotten stronger?” Oh, ho ho, he is very glad that she’s given him vodka this time. Bless this woman.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, it has. Much stronger.” Yennefer nods, resting her chin on her thumb and tracing the shape of her bottom lip with her index finger. Jaskier watches the movement, absolutely enraptured.</p><p class="p1">“Hm. And it’s still,” Yennefer licks her bottom lip, slowly, and Jaskier knows she must be fucking with him because the following smile is downright filthy, “pleasurable?” It takes a long moment before her words register, and when they do he hangs his head in his hands and groans.</p><p class="p1">“Bugger all, Yennefer. You’re taking sick, sick pleasure in ruining my day.” He looks back up at her, pouting. He’s drunk, he can pout now. “You’re saying it’s going to hurt soon, aren’t you?” Yennefer nods and reaches for the bottle.</p><p class="p1">“You should take advantage of how it feels now, while you can.” She pours out another round for them. “Once it’s too painful to bear we’ll try to break it through brute force.” She hands him his glass. “It will be at it’s weakest at that point, giving me the best chance to break it.” She holds her glass out and Jaskier heaves a sigh before he clinks them. Jaskier takes twice as long to recover from it this time, a shiver of pure disgust traveling down his spine.</p><p class="p1">“So.” Jaskier takes a moment to breathe, still holding the glass with a death grip, his wrist pressed against his mouth. “Gods, I hate Lambert for this.” He sets his glass down. “Okay. So this is fae majick that a shit sorceress somehow cast? I thought fae majick meant it had to come from a fae?” Yennefer looks almost impressed at that question, shoving the cork back into the bottle. The sight of it sends relief through Jaskier’s body. He might have to be carried to his rooms again, this really is strong shit and he hasn’t even allowed it the proper time to hit him.</p><p class="p1">“It’s a common mistake. Fae majicks is just another subset of all majicks. Just like elemental majick, glamours, potions, you get it. Fae majick simply uses ingredients imbued with majick from the fae or, even more dangerously, pulling from the well they pull their majicks from. It’s exactly why fae majicks are forbidden to us. When we mix their majicks with ours it’s rarely stable, but incredibly powerful. The potion the King used on you must have been at least ten, maybe fifteen, years old for it to be this unstable already, regardless of the sorceress’s education.” Jaskier’s been staring at his ring, swirling it round and round his finger in a daze as the alcohol starts to settle in. It’s the only thing keeping him held together right now. </p><p class="p1">“Shit.” Yennefer nods in agreement.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. You’ve really drawn the worst possible card in the fucking deck.” Jaskier rests his head back into the chair, letting out a long sigh.</p><p class="p1">“So the plan, for now, is to wait until the touch from Geralt becomes painful. Then you get to try to break it and when that doesn’t work,” he glances down at her, holding his hands up, “not that I doubt your strength, darling, but I get the distinct impression that you don’t think you’ll be able to do it either.” He gets a glower from Yen, but the real horror is watching her uncork the fucking vodka. At this point he can’t just refuse to meet her shot for shot, especially since the look on her face seems to indicate that she won’t exactly allow him of the hook so easily. He barrels on.</p><p class="p1">“But, should that fail, you’ll simply fix the curse so that it does what it was intended to do in the first place.” He takes the glass she hands him and stares at it miserably. “And that will, what? Buy me another ten years before we start the entire shit process over again?”</p><p class="p1">“Sounds like that’s the plan.” She lifts her glass. Jaskier takes a moment to parse through his thoughts. It’s an absolute shite plan, it leaves him shackled and on his knees. It traps him in a way more terrifying than the hardest lock Yennefer could attach to his door. He raises his glass.</p><p class="p1">It’s dangerous, and stupid, and probably won’t work at all, but he’s going to have to go to the fae. The shot burns. Every breath brings up that horrid smell of it and he thinks he’s going to fall under the table much quicker than he usually would.</p><p class="p1">“This simply isn’t fair. I could easily drink you under the table if we were working with alcohol that wasn’t inherently poison for humans.” Yennefer laughs and when she sets her glass down it clearly hits a little harder than she’d intended.</p><p class="p1">“If I can drink you under the table with poison then I can definitely drink you under the table with regular vodka.” Jaskier pouts. It’s sound logic.</p><p class="p1">“Very well, but I would at least be more fun for longer.” She shrugs, uncaring, and it flares a righteous petulance in him. He points his finger at her and realizes that he’s still holding his own glass.</p><p class="p1">“You admit that I’m fun. I’m being very fun right now.” She lifts an eyebrow, trying to look smug or haughty or emotionless or whatever, but she’s also doing a shite job of hiding her smile. Jaskier’s brain sputters at the sight of it again.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, you’re beautiful. Will you help me find the fae?” She snorts and it looks like Jaskier’s managed to take her by surprise once again. She must be feeling the drink as well because her cheeks are beginning to pink and she looks downright fond of him.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the stupidest human I’ve ever met, little stow away.” Jaskier’s mouth drops open, his mind bubbling with laughter, and he puts his hand to his chest to feel the way he’s trying to restrain it in order to look properly offended.</p><p class="p1">“Why, Lady Yennefer! You minx you.” Jaskier leans forward, smiling wide and skin burning like he’s just swallowed the sun, pointing at her. “<em>You like me</em>!” Yennefer laughs, clapping her hands together and falling back into her chair. Her head it tilted back, displaying her long, slender neck and Jaskier traces the shape of it. All that beautiful, smooth skin, leading his eye down to the very full, very beautiful shape of her breast, bouncing with each laugh. His cheeks burn, and he bites his lip, willing himself to cool down.</p><p class="p1">“Oh! Well, what is this?” Jaskier spins in his chair to see who’s just walked in, his face breaking out into a large smile.</p><p class="p1">“Triss, to what do I owe such a lovely visit?” Yen’s voice is muffled and Jaskier turns back around to catch her righting herself from fetching a third glass. By the time Jaskier’s mind has caught up with Yennefer’s intentions she’s already filled the glass with the vile drink. His mouth falls open at the realization and he raises his glass to Yennefer’s brilliance, turning to face Triss.</p><p class="p1">“Lady Triss! <em>You</em> have some catching up to do!” Jaskier says the last part of his sentence in a sing-song manner, laughing. Triss’s eyebrows are way up on her forehead and she’s definitely looking at them like they’re dumbasses, but she also takes the glass to wild applause.</p><p class="p1">“Looks like I’ll be attending the peace talks with Geralt tonight?” Triss moves her free hand to Yennefer’s shoulder, gently squeezing before taking the shot with shocking grace. Even Yennefer wasn’t able to take it without a small grimace. Jaskier watched the ease with which Triss touched her, and all the small ways Yennefer softened under her presence. He smiled, fluttering with the knowledge of their coupling. How sweet.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, bollocks. I forgot that was tonight.” Yennefer smiles and Jaskier gets up, smacking the seat of the chair.</p><p class="p1">“Here, you, sit. I’ll find something else.” Triss’s smile is bright and beautiful and she looks him directly in the eye as she plops into Yennefer’s lap. Yennefer smiles lasciviously with her in her lap, wrapping her arms around her waist, and settling her chin on her Triss’s shoulder. Jaskier gives them an impressed look before returning his ass to his seat, head swimming, body hot. The mere act of standing seemed to make him twice as drunk twice as fast and he cheers when Triss pours herself another glass.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier doesn’t show up for his typical lunch concert. Ciri pouted, a little angry and a little sad, before leaving early. Her meal was left half eaten and Geralt’s staring at her plate with gnawing guilt.</p><p class="p1">He should have insisted she stay and finish her lunch at the very least.</p><p class="p1">His mind is split in two. One side worries that he somehow failed Ciri in one way or another, and the other side worries about Jaskier. Where is he? He can hear the men complaining about his absence, they’ve come to really look forward to his loud, shining energy. Is he eating?</p><p class="p1">It’s not his place to worry about Jaskier. He needs to leave the bard alone.</p><p class="p1">Still, despite himself, he worries. He’s come to look forward to Jaskier’s songs just as much as Ciri. It’s no wonder she raided his rooms, of course she would be curious. He’s curious, too.</p><p class="p1">It’s not his place to worry for him. Whatever he feels for Jaskier, it cannot be reliably returned. Not matter how weak his spell might be, no matter how much Jaskier may be able to tell the difference between what he wants and what the curse is making him want, Geralt can’t risk this. He looks at the plate of half eaten food on his table and sinks further into his silence. He has far too much to loose.</p><p class="p1">He lazes around too long, waiting to see if Jaskier will ever show up, picking a his own food. Sooner or later he’s going to have to go find Yennefer to go over the game plan for tonight’s round of peace talks. It’s annoying, and he doesn’t want to do it, but he’s put far too much effort into getting here that he can’t just back out now. Maybe he could ask Jaskier where he got his glamour charm from, see about getting a few made of himself. Then he wouldn’t have to do any of this shit.</p><p class="p1">Geralt heaves a sigh and pushes himself up from the couch. He’s sulked around long enough.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">“So, Triss. I have a question.” Triss smiles, holding her glass out for a third round already. “Ohh, are you actually going to catch up with us? I think I love you, this is so much fun.” Triss laughs and Yennefer glares and Jaskier props his elbows up on the desk and smiles.</p><p class="p1">“What’s your question, little stow away?” The two of them clink their still empty glasses with hers just to be polite and he waits until she’s shot it back before he answers her.</p><p class="p1">“Am I married?” Yennefer burst out in laughter and Triss looks bemused. She’s still got her arm wrapped around Yennefer’s shoulders but when she sees just how nervous Jaskier is she unwinds herself and sits up straighter, her amusement bleeding out of her. Yennefer’s laughter dies down and she pulls Triss back, closer to her chest, and considers Jaskier’s expression from her perch on Yennefer’s shoulder. It feels tense now and Jaskier knows what she’s going to say but gods he really hopes he’s wrong.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, you’re married.” Triss looks concerned but Yennefer’s expression has slid into something smooth, cold, unreadable. Jaskier’s drunk, and in any other situation he would laugh because -admittedly- this is fucking hilarious, but he’s genuinely starting to freak out. Yennefer slips one of her arms free and slowly starts to pour out another round for all three of them.</p><p class="p1">“But <em>legally</em> it was Dalimira that married him. Not me. I can leave tomorrow and be an unclaimed bachelor in any other kingdom.” Triss’s expression is gentle, worried almost, and she takes one of the glasses and passes it closer to Jaskier. Yennefer is silent.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, it may legally be a marriage with Dalimira, but it was your hand Geralt was bound to. To all of us here, you’re Geralt’s husband.” Jaskier takes his shot without waiting to clink his glass against theirs, just throws it back immediately. It slides down his gullet much smoother than any of the previous. He’s going to regret being alive tomorrow but right now, he needs this. Yennefer’s drunken silence and terrifying expression, Triss’s laughter and gentle touches to her woman, and their easy company as he faces some of the scariest shit he’s ever had to deal with.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">“Geralt! <em>Fantastic</em>.” Jaskier plops his chin onto his hand and raises an eyebrow, staring at him like his sudden appearance is anything but fantastic. Geralt frowns.</p><p class="p1">His hand is still gripping the doorknob and he scrunches his nose at the smell. He can almost taste the stench of Lambert’s shit vodka in the air, curling around them. Triss is in Yen’s lap and Jaskier’s across the desk from the two of them, cheeks ruddy and eyes half lidded. He’s still frowning at him, expression just as cold and unreadable as Yen’s and Geralt almost feels like he walked into a den of angry bears. He can still pick out Jaskier’s peppery lust from the sweat and the alcohol and the cooled meals on the desk. Geralt glowers at the three of them. At least they’ve eaten something.</p><p class="p1">“You two should know better.” He directs his attention to Yen and Triss because he’s never seen anyone mimic Yen’s expression as well as Jaskier currently is and it’s unsettling. Triss giggles, lifting her empty glass to him.</p><p class="p1">“Come and join us, Geralt!” Triss says, shaking her empty glass at him. She’s the only one in the room smiling and she doesn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, she’s not bothered by it.</p><p class="p1">“How much of that shit have you given him?” Geralt asks Triss but it’s Yen who answers. She grips the bottle by the neck and turns it upside down, allowing two small drips of vodka to hit the wooden desk. Shit. If Yen’s gotten drunk enough that she’s no longer speaking then they’ve really been hitting them back. They’ve probably been drinking all afternoon.</p><p class="p1">“He’s done an amazing job of keeping up, Geralt.” Triss speaks directly to Jaskier, smiling bright and leaning forward to run her fingers through his fringe. Jaskier smiles and leans into the touch, looking away from Geralt. He looks like a cat, nuzzling his face into her palm, warm and languid from the drink. He looks beautiful, and Geralt can’t help but remember the look of him shirtless in the firelight, mere inches from his face, bright blue eyes wide and begging for his touch. Yen glares at Jaskier silently but makes no move to restrain Triss.</p><p class="p1">Geralt stands in the doorway, watching the three of them, and trying to figure out what he should do. He’d come here to speak with Yen about the peace talks, but it looks like she’s not going to be attending. Triss giggles and falls back into Yen’s lap, turning her head to capture her mouth. Geralt can smell the way Jaskier’s lust spikes at the sight of it but he averts his own eyes. He’s definitely just been a shit friend lately, he’ll have to make a point of spending some casual time with Yen soon. Geralt has no desire to find out why exactly Yen decided getting Jaskier drunk off his ass in the middle of the day on vodka that would probably make him blind, and he’s certainly not interested in sticking around to see what else Yen decides to do today. He leaves without bothering to say anything, pulling the door closed behind him with a click of the lock.</p><p class="p1">Geralt can hear the door opening back up, and the shockingly steady rhythm of Jaskier’s footsteps trailing behind him. He rolls his eyes and slows his pace, curious as to how Jaskier’s still standing, much less walking, after clearing an entire bottle with Yen and Triss. There weren’t many humans who could make it through three shots of that shit, much less a third of the bottle. Jaskier catches up to him, but instead of sliding his hands around Geralt’s arm like he’d expected, he simply runs right into him.</p><p class="p1">Geralt doesn’t stumble but he is jostled by the added weight. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to lean all of his bodyweight into Geralt, tucking his face into the crook of his shoulder and nuzzling. Geralt’s not sure what to do for a moment, he just allows Jaskier to wrap his arms around his waist and cuddle him in the middle of the hall. It’s strange. Jaskier’s hands are confident and insistent, twisting in his shirt and holding him tight. The scent pouring off of him is made stronger by the heat from the vodka in his blood and the desperate way he’s pressing their bodies together.</p><p class="p1">“How much have you had?” Jaskier lets out a small, keening moan, and despite there no longer being a show for him to watch, his lust spikes and grows all the same. Geralt can feel his half hard cock pressing into his back and it makes Geralt’s body flush with heat, his heartbeat speeding up. He makes a desperate attempt to ignore it.</p><p class="p1">“Plenty.” Jaskier’s voice betrays how drunk he is, slow and slurred. “Did you know we’re married?” Jaskier’s tone is cold and sarcastic. Well, that explains Jaskier’s attitude when he’d walked in on the party. Geralt grabs a hold of Jaskier’s wrists and tries to pry himself free, suddenly desperate to create space between them, to run off and never deal with this conversation. Jaskier bites down on Geralt’s neck and Geralt’s hands tighten around Jaskier’s wrists instinctively. A sharp stab of lust shoots throughout his entire body, electric and breathtaking. Geralt glares at the floor, jaw tight, grinding his teeth. He forcefully pulls Jaskier’s hands away from him and he can feel Jaskier’s pout pressed into his skin.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier. Get off of me.” Jaskier sighs, heavy, and it smells like pure vodka. Geralt feels a momentary pang of pity for Jaskier, any other human and he’d be comatose. Tomorrow is going to be a nightmare for him. Jaskier takes a step back but he can still feel his breath on his neck, can still smell lust pouring off of him.</p><p class="p1">“You’re going to have to let go of me if you want me to get away from you.” Jaskier’s tone is still cold and Geralt fucking hates it. Somehow, even though he still wants to get away from Jaskier, he doesn’t want Jaskier to be the one leaving him. It’s confusing and he can feel his usual annoyance bubbling up in response to it. He knows his grip is too tight but Jaskier hasn’t said anything about it. Probably too drunk to notice that he’ll have bruises in the morning.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t realize you didn’t know about our marriage, Jaskier. You were there.” Geralt doesn’t want to have this conversation, but Jaskier is mad at him and he’s not certain why it bothers him so much but it really fucking does. Jaskier’s head thunks against his shoulder blade.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t think it would be considered legal here.” Geralt’s struggling between his annoyance and his confusion, does he not realize the significance of the ceremony they participated in? He’s worried about legality? Jaskier’s voice is gentler now, sounding lost. Jaskier set out to save a friend, not to bind their destinies together. When Geralt agreed to the ceremony, he knew what a handfasting meant, what power it had. The humans, it seems, have forgotten it’s origins. Jaskier isn’t leaning all of his weight against him but Geralt can tell that if he moved Jaskier would loose his balance all the same. He sighs and lifts Jaskier’s arms so they’re wrapped around his own shoulders.</p><p class="p1">“Huh?” Jaskier says, picking his head up some so that his nose is once agains pressed into his neck. Geralt’s hands fall back to Jaskier’s sides, gently patting at his thighs.</p><p class="p1">“Come on, hop up. I’ll take you to your room.” Jaskier smiles into his skin and dutifully hops up, trusting Geralt to catch him before he falls back down to the floor. Geralt adjusts to the weight of him, bouncing him up a little bit further and Jaskier relaxes into his hold, burying his face into Geralt’s hair. He can feel Jaskier taking in a deep breath and it sends another thrum of excitement through his body. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to scent his own growing interest in response to Jaskier’s lust but the innocuous action still effects him.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks.” Jaskier’s heartbeat and breathing are slow, at ease, and his hands gather fistfuls of his shirt now that he’s settled. It pulls his shirt tight against his chest and Geralt wonders why Jaskier feels the need to do that. “Can’t believe I let Yennefer intimidate me into drinking half the fucking bottle.” He mumbles into his temple, the brush of his lips almost tickling.</p><p class="p1">“Half?!” Geralt tilts his head back to try and get a look at Jaskier but it just earns him a whine for jostling him. How in the hell is Jaskier still capable of talking, much less alive? Geralt’s going to have to have a serious conversation about not poisoning the fucking humans. Again. Jaskier doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t speak the entire time Geralt carefully walks down the first set of stairs to his rooms so Geralt just assumes that he’s asleep. The scent of his lust does ebb away and even the scent of wildflowers is subdued.</p><p class="p1">“So, our marriage?” Geralt scowls, rolling his eyes. Why couldn’t he asleep?</p><p class="p1">“I’m not interested in having this conversation with a man who can’t even walk, he’s so drunk.” Jaskier huffs a laugh into his neck, nuzzling his cheek into his hair. If he were a wolf Geralt would assume he’s trying to rub his scent on him in some attempt to claim him. It eases something in him, relaxes him even though it shouldn’t. Jaskier has no way of knowing what this action would mean to a wolf.</p><p class="p1">“Why not?” Jaskier’s sharp, slurred sarcasm is back. “You sure as shit didn’t wanna talk to me about it when I was sober.” Geralt frowns, caught. It is, admittedly, true. The second Jaskier learns about the power of a handfasting he’s going to hate Geralt, railing against him the exact same way Yen did when she learned about the Djinn. This would be so much easier if he were the princess. Their link would be clear and obvious, it wouldn’t be a surprise that they were bound together. Jaskier wants freedom, and adventure, this is just another shackle on his wrist, tying him here, weighing him down.</p><p class="p1">“A handfasting is an elvish tradition. There’s majick in it, regardless of who preforms it. We are.” Geralt slows his pace the closer they get to Jaskier’s rooms. His weight is comfortable, and warm, and the gentle beat of his heart is calming. Regardless of Jaskier’s impending rage, or perhaps because of it, he hesitates to return him to his rooms. Jaskier bites at Geralt’s earlobe, a gentle request for him to continue, and Geralt can feel a quiet growl rumbling in his chest. Jaskier is drunk, and cursed, and seemingly incapable of avoiding insane situations. “We’re bound.” Jaskier is silent. He doesn’t seem to react at all, his heartbeat doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t gasp, he doesn’t seem angry or upset at all. Geralt’s mind races, desperate to catch any indication of Jaskier’s reaction, for a long moment before Jaskier finally answers.</p><p class="p1">“And?” Jaskier’s voice is loud in his ear, breath hot, and he still doesn’t seem upset despite the sarcasm. “What does that mean, Geralt?” Relief floods through him but it’s at war with his annoyance. Nothing can be easy. Jaskier’s entire purpose here is to torture him, it must be. Now that he’s prepared himself for Jaskier’s rage and hasn’t received it he no longer wants to continue down this line of conversation. He doesn’t want to push Jaskier to that rage. He selfishly wants to hold him close, keep him.</p><p class="p1">It’s terrifying, the realization that he wants Jaskier to stay.</p><p class="p1">“Will you even remember this conversation in the morning, Jaskier?” He tries to contain his annoyance but he can hear it bleeding into his tone. Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he certainly doesn’t seem to care. He can feel Jaskier’s shoulders shrugging against his body.</p><p class="p1">“Probably not. I think I’m still owed an explanation.” Having this conversation once is difficult enough, must he really endure it twice? Geralt grinds his teeth and tries to force the tension out of his shoulders. He’s right.</p><p class="p1">“Our lives are connected, the strings of fate are intertwined now.” He can feel Jaskier’s growing tension, his sharp intake of breath. He takes a moment to scent him for fear, or anger, but neither of them appear. “I wouldn’t worry yourself over it too much, Jaskier. It’s a ceremony, nothing more.” Geralt says it, and for the most part he believes it. He’s never put much stock into worries about destiny before, but he can feel the familiar itch of a lie under his skin. He’s not certain what he’s lied about and doesn’t understand why he feels like he has.</p><p class="p1">“A ceremony that you respect enough to honor. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t consider our marriage valid.” Jaskier’s tone is quiet, but firm. He sees right through Geralt and it makes Geralt feel vulnerable. He does respect the ceremony. Still Jaskier doesn’t smell of fear or raise his voice in anger. It’s strange and Geralt wishes he knew what Jaskier was thinking, how he felt. He can feel Jaskier letting out a heavy sigh, and he wishes that he could see the look on his face to understand what it means. Jaskier has been silent, and his heart rate has remained steady, and his breathing hasn’t begun to panic. Geralt has no idea how Jaskier is taking this, but he’s certainly not reacting how he’d expect thus far. Geralt comes to a stop before Jaskier’s room and waits for Jaskier to slide free. </p><p class="p1">“Did.” Jaskier’s voice is kinder now, and litte more than a whisper. He hesitates and it makes Geralt angry, but he can feel the thrum of his mounting fear causing it. He didn’t expect to be so afraid of Jaskier’s reaction. He tries to be patient, and quiet. “Did you want a wife?” Geralt’s not certain if he’s heard him right. His confusion helps to cut through his anger and his fear. Jaskier releases his vicehold on Geralt’s shirts and slowly slides down Geralt’s back. Geralt allows Jaskier’s legs to fall from his hold slowly, allowing Jaskier to lean against him until he gets his footing.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier just discovered that his fate has been bound to him. A Warlord. A witcher. A mutated monster, hated by all the people of his lands. And his reaction is to worry for him? To worry for what he’d wanted?</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s hands fall onto his waist, and he keeps his hands on him as he spins around him. His hands trace over his hips, slide over his belly, and grab more fistfuls of his shirt once they’re face to face, near his waist. He doesn’t push or pull, just holds, and his eyes look directly into Geralt’s, open, vulnerable, searching. Geralt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, what Jaskier is looking for from him. He keeps his mouth shut and waits for Jaskier to find what he’s looking for, to speak, or to leave, or to attack him. Something, anything, <em>fuck</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, did I rob you of a chance for a wife?” Jaskier’s beautiful blue eyes blink and fill with tears. Geralt’s hands settle on Jaskier’s hips before he can even realize that he wants to do it, before he can stop himself. Jaskier looks so earnest, so worried, so uncertain, and that’s for him. He feels sorrow for him. Not because he’s just learned that they’re bound together, but because he’s worried that this marriage denies him a chance at a real marriage.</p><p class="p1">“You?” <em>I want, you want.</em> He’d meant it. “You would cry for me?” Once again Geralt’s body betrays him, reaching up to touch the tear that’s escaped, to see if it’s real. Geralt has an overwhelming urge to bring his thumb to his mouth and taste it, confirm it for what it is, but he resists. Jaskier huffs out a laugh, leaning into Geralt’s touch. Somehow, standing in his arms, looking right at him, Jaskier still manages to catch him off guard. He tilts his chin up and touches his lips to Geralt’s, gentle, insistent. Geralt’s mind whites out and he sighs into the feeling of it, his other hand coming up to capture his neck and pull him in even closer.</p><p class="p1">It’s amazing. Jaskier’s lips are soft and he lets out a low moan when he feels Geralt’s mouth responding in kind. He bites at his lower lip, using his fistfuls of Geralt’s shirt to drag him closer, desperate to eliminate all space between them. Jaskier’s hands begin to shake, and his breathing becomes desperate, loud. Suddenly his hands are everywhere, wrapping around his waist, nails digging in through his shirt, one tangling into his hair and the other trailing down his side.</p><p class="p1">He needs to leave. He needs to take a step back. He needs to end this <em>now</em>.</p><p class="p1">Geralt presses him into the wall, crowding him against it, burying his nose into Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for him, and he can feel Jaskier’s tongue lick at the shell of his ear before his teeth nip at him. It’s overwhelming. The scent of him is strong enough to taste and Geralt wants to fill his lungs with it, wants to breathe in nothing else. Geralt licks a long, slow stripe from the base of his neck up to sensitive spot where Jaskier’s jaw meets his ear and it makes Jaskier gasp, makes his back arch into him. Jaskier slots his leg inbetween Geralt’s and pants into his ear as he ruts on his thigh, moaning and keening and pawing at him, still trying to pull him closer. Geralt can smell Jaskier’s cock leaking in his breeches. He chases his mouth, licks at his lips, captures every sound that Jaskier makes, desperate for them, to taste them, to catalog every sound he makes.</p><p class="p1">Leave. Stop. This can’t, this isn’t. This….</p><p class="p1">“Geralt. Geralt, <em>please</em>.” Jaskier’s begging is so sweet, it shoots right to his cock. Geralt growls, low and hungry, digging his fingers into Jaskier’s hips, pressing him into the wall to still him. Geralt tilts his mouth away from Jaskier’s, pressing their foreheads together, trying to catch his breath, to clear his mind. Jaskier whines, hands tangling into his hair to try and tug him down, tilting his face up to chase him. Geralt lowers his head, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s neck and removes one hand from Jaskier’s hip to grasp his wrist. He can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat under his skin, can hear it pumping, loud and quick and strong. Geralt’s chest is rumbling with a growl but he tries to slow his own breathing, to calm himself, to quiet the rumble.</p><p class="p1">“No, Geralt, hng, please, come <em>back</em>.” Jaskier tries to move his hips, to kickstart Geralt back into this moment but Geralt’s hand presses into his stomach to stop him. He can practically taste Jaskier’s arousal, hanging thick and heavy in the air, stinking up the entire hallway with it. It’s intoxicating. He doesn’t want to smell anything else ever again. “<em>Geralt, please</em>.” Jaskier’s breathless, desperate whine is so fucking hot that Geralt almost gives in.</p><p class="p1">“I can’t, Jaskier. I,” Jaskier thunks his head back onto the stone and whines. It’s endearing, and it’s dangerous that it’s endearing. “I can’t.” Jaskier is still shaking. He releases his hold on Geralt and makes an honest effort to regulate his breathing. Geralt’s hands are still on him, his face still tucked into the fragrant, soft skin of his neck and it’s an honest struggle for him to not turn his face and sink his teeth and mark. He wants to own. To display his ownership. To scar, even, desperately. He lifts his head, pulling away from that scent, and tries to steady himself by breathing in cleaner air.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, okay, shit. I’m sorry.” Jaskier’s voice shakes, his body shakes, and Geralt watches him press himself into the wall, swallowing and taking in long, slow gulps of air. Geralt can still taste the vodka on his tongue and it’s an excuse for now. The easy excuse, should Jaskier ask, but Geralt feels Jaskier slipping away from his grasp without saying anything else. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the stone and listens to Jaskier walk into his rooms.</p><p class="p1">Geralt can’t help himself. He listens to Jaskier fall into his couch, moaning into the cushions, through the walls. He can hear Jaskier’s panting, smell his cock leaking, hear the shuffle of his body against the cushions. He imagines Jaskier rutting into the cushion, chasing the feeling of rutting into Geralt’s thigh, gasping for release, coming in his breeches like a horny teenager. Jaskier whines as he pumps his cock to completion, moans when he comes, and Geralt’s mouth waters. He imagines the face Jaskier’s making, the way he would bite his lip, he way he would shutter, the way he continues to rut into the cushion to chase his orgasm. Desperate to make it last. Geralt listens to every sound that falls from his lips, intruding on his privacy once again.</p><p class="p1">He breathes against the stone and prays that no one catches him, willing his cock down.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt doesn’t go back to Jaskier’s rooms after the peace talks that evening. He’s scared to. He wants to. In the dark, with the fire so low it’s barely more than smoldering and smoke, he can admit to that. He’s scared of Jaskier, of what he offers, of what Geralt will take.</p><p class="p1">If Yen is to be trusted then soon Jaskier won’t be able to control his emotions, much less understand the difference between the curse’s manipulation and his own feelings. And Yen is always to be trusted. Geralt sits on his couch and stares at the fire and bites his knuckle and tries to think about anything else. The dull ache in his index finger is grounding. Focusing on it helps him ease the jittery energy thrumming in his body.</p><p class="p1">Tonight was better. Annoying, and long, but better. Having Eskel by his side was a comfort, more so than Triss or Yen. He wasn’t the only witcher in the room and it did more to make the night bearable than he’d expected it to. Still, sitting in a stuffy room and listening to Kings spout bullshit for hours somehow managed to both exhaust him and rile him. Now that he’s back he can’t decide if he wants to destroy something or crawl into bed and sleep.</p><p class="p1">He thinks it might be easier if he could find someone to fuck. Anyone to fuck. Anyone with blue eyes that isn’t fucking Jaskier and all the weight that comes with that incredible peppery, citrus scent.</p><p class="p1">It must be the curse, somehow. If he were to look at him with those blue eyes, batting those lashes, tonguing his lips, and hear him beg one more whining, breathless <em>‘please’</em>, he doesn’t think he’d be able to say no to him ever again. Especially now, knowing the curse is weak. Knowing that he can tell the difference between the curse’s manipulations and his own wants.</p><p class="p1">For now.</p><p class="p1">He can’t trust himself with Jaskier. He continues to press his boundaries, continues to take advantage of him. Jaskier is cursed and it has to be doing something to him to make him kiss him, to make his beg for Geralt’s touch. Jaskier can’t possibly want this. Geralt sits there for a long time, biting his knuckle, watching the fire die slowly, feeling guilty and miserable and hating himself.</p><p class="p1">He knows that the reason Yen brought out the vodka, now. Geralt can’t really fault Jaskier for wanting to drink during that particular conversation, but Yen really should have known better. Half of Lambert’s shit vodka couldn’t possibly be good for a human’s overall health. Geralt would be shocked if Jaskier were anywhere near conscious at all tomorrow. Maybe he should send someone to stand by his door, make sure his heartbeat doesn’t slow down too much. Yen ensured him that Jaskier would come to no harm, but still. It couldn’t possibly be safe. It’s Lambert’s fucking vodka, it was barely safe for a witcher.</p><p class="p1">He’ll have to watch Ciri’s tight look of disappointment and uncertainty when Jaskier doesn’t show up for his afternoon concerts once again. This time he’ll insist she eat her meal in it’s entirety. Or perhaps he’ll inform her that he won’t be able to make it today. Eh, she’ll probably sneak in and try to see him anyway, and then she’ll have to deal with her disappointment on her own.</p><p class="p1">Geralt presses his teeth into his knuckle harder, just for a moment, before releasing it entirely. He looks down at the indents he’s left behind, turning his hand around absentmindedly, looking but not really seeing. His mind is still racing; worry, anxiety, uncertainty. They’re all the same emotion, really. <em>Fear</em>. Yen didn’t tell him the details of their conversation but Geralt didn’t ask, either. He’s already buried elbows deep in Jaskier’s privacy, no need to claw his way even deeper. Still, he knows the options that have been presented to Jaskier. He’s fairly certain that Jaskier is going to go to the fae sooner or later.</p><p class="p1">Dangerous. Stupid.</p><p class="p1">If Jaskier goes to the fae there’s a chance that he won’t see him again. If Yen’s majick doesn’t break the curse outright then it’s the only option he has to be free of it, but. It’s selfish, and horrible, but Geralt can hear it scratching at the back of his mind. A silent, insistent thought, too horrible and selfish to be voiced.</p><p class="p1">Would it really be such a horrible thing? Is Jaskier so horrified by the thought of loving him that he’d prefer to go to the fae, risk his life, his freedom, to be free of it?</p><p class="p1">“Uncle Geralt?” Geralt looks up to see Ciri in the doorway, rubbing at her eye and yawning. He must have been so distracted by his thoughts that he hadn’t heard Ciri wake up. Or walk down the stairs from her room to the common area.</p><p class="p1">“What are you doing awake, little cub?” Ciri shrugs, walking over to their small kitchen. It’s a basic kitchen, nothing extravagant, but goof for nights like these when one or both of them couldn’t sleep. Geralt watches Ciri grab the bread from the shelf and cut two thick slices before reaching for the marmalade. Probably another nightmare. Ciri doesn’t have them as often as she used to, but she’s always preferred to chase them away with something sweet. She just so happens to have the same taste that he does when it comes to sweet things.</p><p class="p1">Geralt gets up from the couch to grab the plate holding their bread.</p><p class="p1">“Toasted?” Geralt’s always preferred his toasted, but sometimes Ciri can’t stand being that patient. She smiles and nods, setting the jar down on the table. Geralt smiles and grabs a long pair of tongs to do just that. Soon he can smell the tin of tea she opens up and the accompanying sounds of her preparing the kettle.</p><p class="p1">This is good. This is really good. He stokes the fire, building it back up so it’s strong enough to boil the water. Ciri comes to sit next to him, handing over the water and setting the kettle down on the table close to the plate. Her hair glitters in the firelight the same way he supposes his does, and the way her mother’s did.</p><p class="p1">He’s already almost lost this once. He remembers the last time he said goodbye to Pavetta, the red mark she’d left behind on his jaw and the way she’d leaned out of her carriage to wave him goodbye one last time. Her smile was wide and beautiful, her hair sparkled in the sunlight, and she was so young.</p><p class="p1">He can remember finding Calanthe’s body. He can remember Ciri’s screaming for a year, every night, desperate, powerful. She shook the walls around her with her sorrow. </p><p class="p1">He can’t risk loosing this. Not again.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s laying in bed, miserable. He’s still drunk, he’s worried he might be drunk forever. Thankfully he was able to fall into bed after taking his clothes off and cleaning himself up. His skin is feverish, overheated, but he’s not willing to remove the blankets enveloping him. He was asleep, why isn’t he asleep?</p><p class="p1">He never wants to drink fucking ever again.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s not going to come tonight. Jaskier’s not disappointed about it, or angry because they never made plans, but he is depressed. He wishes he would come, but it’s probably better that he doesn’t. His mind is racing, has been all day, despite the weight of Lambert’s fucking vodka.</p><p class="p1">He’s going to die. Well, he always knew he would, every human tends to do that, but still. This is far quicker than he’d expected it. The chaos trapped inside him is leaking out of him and sooner or later it’s going to shred his body to pieces. Jaskier groans, turning slowly to press his face into his pillow and it sends an overwhelming wave of nausea through his body. The sun isn’t in the sky anymore, it hasn’t been for a long time now, and Jaskier should be asleep.</p><p class="p1">He was asleep, why isn’t he asleep? Gods, just go back to fucking sleep.</p><p class="p1">He’s going to be locked back into this bloody curse. He’s going to be locked into a stronger version of this curse. He’s going to be a slave and he’s not even going to know it. It’s terrifying. She’d promised that it would be different, but it doesn’t help the suffocating feeling of chains tying him down. He’d never wanted this. Well, maybe. One day. He’d dreamed of love, a love that lasted, and marriage. Maybe a kid, even. Not his own, but a niece, maybe. But not now. Not now.</p><p class="p1">Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to <em>fucking</em> sleep.</p><p class="p1">They’d kissed. Geralt kissed back. It was an incredible kiss. Even now, laying in bed, he can feel the curse weighing him down. His mouth still tingles, his hands are still warm, and he kinda wants to retch. The only option he has is finding the fae. It feels like no matter how this plays out he’ll end up caged. He ends up as someone’s pet. Maybe he’ll assassinate the King. It wouldn’t be too hard, no one would suspect the fucking bard.</p><p class="p1">And the cherry atop his mountain of shit? The witchers are all convinced they’re married. They don’t care that Geralt is technically married to Dalimira, they all consider it an important distinction that it was <em>his</em> hand. Of course. Even Geralt considers the two of them married. Their fates are intertwined. What the <em>fuck</em> does that mean? Why is talking to Geralt such a nightmare, the man can’t bring himself to speak five words in succession without looking like he wants to impale himself.</p><p class="p1">Still, he has spoken to him. He’s opened up to him, been honest, and shown himself. And every piece he got to see was lovely. Tattered and scarred, but beautiful all the same. Breathtakingly beautiful. He would have fallen without the curse. He would have. Maybe. Probably.</p><p class="p1">Can’t he just fall back to sleep? Isn’t sleep supposed to be the one thing that drinking always brings?</p><p class="p1">It never occurred to Jaskier to think about how this would effect Geralt. It never occurred to him to consider that they would actually be married. Did Geralt want to be married? Was he hoping for a wife? Children? A family? It wouldn’t be unheard of that a political marriage was still able to develop into a loving marriage, a happy one. Did he steal that from him?</p><p class="p1">He’s been endlessly selfish. Shockingly selfish. Far more selfish then he’s ever been before.</p><p class="p1">Dimmy’s letter. He still has it tucked away in a semi-secret pocket, unsent. He can do that, he can uphold the last promise he’d made to an old friend. Well, he’ll have to read it, and as long as it’s not incriminating he’ll be able to send it, but it’s something. He can control that, at least. He can be a good friend. Kinda. One sent letter doesn’t really cover binding himself to someone against their will.</p><p class="p1">Gods, no wonder Geralt kept running away from him. He’s been such an ass.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one really got away from guys, it's so long and it was so difficult for me to edit. Hopefully the timeline in this chapter makes sense, if you have any questions just let me know. <br/>This has been so much fun to write, I'm so glad you guys have been enjoying it, I'm really looking forward to your feedback on this one ;) &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Dear Mother,</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I will always cherish those rare nights we’d spend together, when you would allow me to stay awake far later than usual. I’d work on my embroidery as slowly and silently as possible for fear that if I made myself known you would remember to send me away, hands and shoulders heavy with the sleep I so desperately fought. I spent those evenings leaned against your knee, and everytime you turned the page of your book I’d feel the gentle brush of your knuckles against my scalp. Sometimes, even more rarely, you’d slowly curl one of your fingers around a lock of my hair and I always imagined it was during the scary parts. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>They took so much from us, even more from you. You weren’t allowed to be a mother. I wish I’d seen more of what you hid behind the mask. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>With warmth, Dimmy</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Jaskier stares at the letter, eyes stinging, for a long moment. His head is pounding, his stomach is rolling, and he’s fairly certain that he’s going to die today. The next time he sees Lambert he’s going to murder him, mainly because he feels he has a better chance of succeeding against Lambert than Yennefer.</p><p class="p1">He carefully slips the letter back into it’s envelope but doesn’t bother to close it back up. Closing it is the more complicated part of opening letters not intended for his eyes and when he passes it on to Geralt to give to Queen Hedwig he may want to read it himself before he does so. Just to ensure that Jaskier isn’t a liar and a spy and passing on secret messages.</p><p class="p1">Dimmy’s letter effects him. It makes his heart ache for her. He’d informally abdicated his claim to his birthright at age fifteen, but he’d grown up in court, too. While his station never restricted him to the degree that Dimmy’s did, he can understand her feeling of loss and abandonment all the same. He’d made the right decision when he agreed to help her escape, she deserves the chance to find happiness and freedom. Regardless of what effect his actions have had on Geralt, Dimmy deserved that chance.</p><p class="p1">Oh, sweet Melitele’s abundant bosom, Geralt. Jaskier finally sets the letter onto the sidetable close to his bed and drops his head in his hands, groaning. He can feel his blood rushing in his veins, pounding along with his heartbeat, and he feels exhausted despite the few hours of deep sleep he’d managed to eek out. He’s run on three hours of sleep before so why is he struggling now? He may puke. His hands are still shaking, hours after touching Geralt, hours after finally sobering up. It’s a little scary but Jaskier chalks it up to the hangover, easily the worst hangover he’s ever had. It’s not often that he’s managed to drink enough to even get a hangover. Blessed youth. He’s not looking forward to his tolerance lowering any with age.</p><p class="p1">He’d kissed Geralt. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, finding with some surprise that the new pressure seems to lessen the pressure in his skull. He’d kissed him and Geralt had pushed him away because he didn’t want Jaskier to kiss him. That thought itself is enough to make his stomach roll, joining in with his constant nausea. He’s been such a fucking ass.</p><p class="p1">He’s probably never going to see Geralt again. Maybe he should ask Yennefer to deliver Dimmy’s letter.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier gets up slowly, relying on the bedframe to hold him up until the bloodrush eases down. His body feels heavy and feverish, which is really doing fuckall to help ease his hangover, and he gingerly makes his way through his rooms into the small area designated as a kitchen. He hasn’t bothered to look around the small alcove before and he leans against the small dining table to catch his breath as he looks at what he’s been provided with.</p><p class="p1">There’s two shelves, lined with all kinds of stuff. Mugs, plates, jars of jellies, a variety of preserved foods, three different tins of tea, a kettle, a hanging pot, various utensils. They really decked this room out now that he’s paying attention. Did all the rooms get the same treatment or were his rooms afforded special treatment?</p><p class="p1">Jaskier takes the jug of water and fills the kettle, setting it aside while he opens the tins to decide which tea he wants. Coffee would be better but that’s a fairly extravagant item. He takes his time, moving slow, and allows his mind to wander.</p><p class="p1">Why? Why can’t he? Is he still trying to protect him from the curse? Surely he can’t still think his actions are being controlled by this stupid, fucking endless curse? Though, these days, Jaskier isn’t so sure himself. Jaskier prepares a decanter and sets it inside a mug. Everything only gets more confusing the more time he spends around Geralt. He pulls down a plate and stacks everything atop it, mug, a spoon, and a jar of honey that still has a chunk of the beeswax in it. With everything in one easy to carry stack he picks up the kettle by it’s handle and carefully picks up the plate with the same hand to allow one of his hands free in case he needs to catch himself. Every step makes his hand pound and his stomach roll with nausea. Carefully he situates himself in front of the fire and sets his plunder on the coffee table beside him, leaning his weight into it’s solid oak. Pine, maybe? He won’t pretend to be capable of differentiating between wood types. </p><p class="p1">Maybe he’s already dead, and this horrible feeling of being underwater, his body trapped in a current pulling him to and fro, is just a lower level of hell. It makes sense that he’d end up in eternal damnation, he’s lived a short life of irresponsible revelry. Probably doesn’t help that he spent so much of his youth traversing around in a brothel, either. He watches the fire burn, waiting for the kettle to whistle, and twirls his ring around his finger absently. He has several of them, and he runs his fingers over them, ensuring that they’re all there, eyes never leaving the spot they’ve decided to fixate on.</p><p class="p1">When he’d first seen Geralt he knew right away that he wanted him. It was instant, just thinking with his cock, but he’d seen him before the curse. This desire is real. That’s a comfort, at least. He’s not a slave, he’s not doing anything he’d regret when the curse finally breaks, he can trust his desires. His emotions, less so.</p><p class="p1">He would have fallen. The kindness hidden under his scary scowls and huge muscular body, the boldness to demand to be remembered, the way he’s doing what he can to give his brothers a second choice. Jaskier knows he would’ve fallen in love regardless of the curse. It’s his. It has to be his.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier prepares his tea and crawls to the other side of the table so he can rest against the couch, it’s softness soothing the biting indent the table left across his shoulders. He’d love to hop up and spread himself out on the soft cushions, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. He doesn’t think he’ll have the energy for anything ever again. This is where he’ll be forever. He pulls the coffee table closer to him so he doesn’t have to sit up to reach anything.</p><p class="p1">There’s a sharp knock on the door and Jaskier just lets out a loud grunt. He’s not really too interested in seeing anybody, but he’s not at all willing to put any effort into refusing the company, either. Let whoever at his door make the decision for him.</p><p class="p1">“Hey little stow away, the lock finally stump you?” Eskel says, smiling, as he walks into the room holding two platters of food and two mugs of steaming something. Thankfully breakfast around here is cold because if Eskel had brought in anything more fragrant he’d have to puke on the spot. As it stands, Jaskier slumps back against the couch and offers up a weak smile at Eskel’s thoughtfulness.</p><p class="p1">“Woah, you look like shit.” Lambert. Fucking Lambert. Jaskier tries to summon a glare but it’s about as weak as his body is. Eskel is already setting the food on the coffee table and sitting down next to Jaskier but Lambert stays in the hallway, holding onto the top of the doorframe and leaning in.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, I feel like shit, too. I was tricked into drinking half a bottle of that shit fucking vodka you make.” Lambert’s eyes go wide and he breaks out into a huge, devilish smile while he can Eskel’s mouth drop next to him in the corner of his eye.</p><p class="p1">“Half?!” They both say in stunned unison, but with very different inflections. Jaskier throws up his hand and waves it in Lambert’s general direction.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, c’mere so I can hit you for it.” Lambert laughs but doesn’t take a single step, just keeps swaying in and out of the doorway, almost like a pushup but too languid for it. Jaskier catches the two of them share a long glance and it’s something he would worry about if he had the space in his brain for it. Maybe later.</p><p class="p1">“No-ho way little stow away. I can’t believe you’re fucking coherent right now. Whatever batch you got a hold of must’ve been the weak shit.” Jaskier groans and plops his hand back down to the floor beside him, stomach rolling at the thought of his usual brew being something stronger. His hands have stopped shaking but his chest and stomach feel cold, like his very blood has gone cold. He feels hollow, gutted, and his head still thumps along with his heartbeat, already gentler than it had been when he’d first stood up this morning. “I just came by to say hi, anyway. I gotta go ruin the trainees’ day. Feel better stow away, you’re gonna need it!” Jaskier doesn’t need to tilt his head back to know that Lambert’s mocking him, smiling and shaking his head as he releases his hold on the doorframe and walks away. He leaves the door open and something about it bothers Jaskier, but not enough for him to say anything.</p><p class="p1">“You really do look like shit.” Eskel says, helpfully, and Jaskier watches him push the steaming mug towards him. “Coffee.” Jaskier groans and immediately swaps out his lukewarm tea for the coffee, holding it close to his chest and taking in a deep breath of its steam.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, gods, Eskel I could fucking kiss you right now.” Eskel chuckles at that and starts to make a dent in the platters of food he’d brought. Any other day and Jaskier would have been flattered by his thoughtful act of brining and sharing his breakfast with him but right now the mere sight of food makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He sips the coffee slowly and revels in the way it feels pooling into his cold stomach. It helped to warm him up in a way the tea had failed to do.</p><p class="p1">“Where’d you get your hands on Lambert’s vodka?”</p><p class="p1">“Ugh, Yennefer and, hey! What the fuck?” Jaskier turns to pout at Eskel before looking around for the grape that had hit his cheek. “Why are you throwing food at me, I’m an <em>invalid</em>.” He uses his whiney, petulant prince voice and locates the grape somewhere in the folds of his sleep pants, popping it into his mouth without much forethought. The sensation of the berry bursting open in his mouth is so nauseating that he almost retches on the spot.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the reason why I had to go to those shit peace talks last night. Fuckin’ hate being the diplomat.” Eskel pouts, too, and it’s a good look on him. If he’d ever attempted to use it on him when he wasn’t desperately trying not to die then it may have afforded him anything within Jaskier’s grasp to give. Jaskier takes a large gulp of his coffee to force the grape down his throat and takes in a few slow breaths to try and settle his stomach. “Did you guys have an interesting conversation?” Jaskier turns to face him properly and nods.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. Turns out I’m married. Did you know?” Jaskier tries to keep his tone light and friendly, but he can hear the way his anxiety leaks into it despite his effort. He’s too tired to keep up any sort of effective façade.</p><p class="p1">“Why do you think I told you to ask her about it?”</p><p class="p1">“Why didn’t you just tell me about it?” Eskel suddenly becomes very interested in the fire when Jaskier asks that question, scratching at his scar. He gives him a moment to fess up before he tosses his hand in Eskel’s direction to smack at his shoulder softly, nothing but sound.</p><p class="p1">“It wasn’t my place, Jaskier. I was hoping that Geralt would, eventually. It’s not exactly an easy conversation to have.” Jaskier huffs out a tired laugh and smiles ruefully. He’s not wrong, it wasn’t an easy conversation to have at all. He and Geralt still haven’t really had it, Jaskier’s cock got in the way again. There was something in Geralt’s eyes when he looked at him in that moment, the way he touched his cheek and seemed so painfully surprised that someone would cry for him.</p><p class="p1">No, Jaskier can’t think about it. He doesn’t want to cry again. He knows he looks an absolute mess. Eyes puffy and skin pale and a little green. The tears started from the overwhelming loss of touch, developed into the searing pain of rejection, and devolved into his exhaustion throughout the night. He’d love nothing more than to sink into those blissful pools below the Keep right now but he’s fairly certain he’d keel over on the way down.</p><p class="p1">“Did she tell you this is the first known witcher marriage?” Jaskier scoffs and rolls his eyes as he reaches out for a chunk of bread. He needs to eat something and this is probably the least offensive item available to him.</p><p class="p1">“You’re shitting me.”</p><p class="p1">“There may have been some throughout history, witchers have been around a really long time, and there are no rules against it, but. Well. No way to know for certain. It’s not exactly like the Path leaves room for a wife.” Jaskier stares at the bread in his hand like it’s personally offended him before he sets down the coffee to pull off a small bite with his fingers. The bread is still warm.</p><p class="p1">“What about when witchers retire? I’m sure they marry after that.” Jaskier chews on the morsel of bread slowly, turning to look at Eskel. He looks pained, staring at his own coffee with his face pinched in. It’s not a very attractive look at all. “Right?” Eskel sighs and takes a moment to readjust his position on the floor, stretching the leg closest to him out under the table and bending his other knee to rest his elbow on it. He turns at the waist to better face Jaskier and levels him with that same pinched expression, not quite making eye contact.</p><p class="p1">“Witchers don’t retire. Well,” Eskel’s hand jumps and he shakes his head, his whole body seemingly alive with a frustrated energy for a moment. “they didn’t used to. I guess they do now.” Eskel looses his thought in the dance of the fire for a moment before shaking himself free of it to look at Jaskier directly once more, looking more stable now. “But this is barely seventy years old. Maybe three witchers have retired, if you can even call it a retirement. It’s not something we’ve ever had the option of before.” Jaskier feels floored by that. Not retire?</p><p class="p1">“So, what? You were just expected to risk your life on the Path, collecting coin and traveling around and being treated like shit until you died?” Jaskier doesn’t believe it for a second until he sees the look in Eskel’s eyes when he says it. “Bullshit.” Eskel doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare him down, silent, insistent, and a little sad. “And there’s still witchers who walk their path with that mindset? That they’ll die on it, no wife, no retirement.” Eskel’s mouth quirks up in a small smile and he takes in a deep breath, nodding in agreement.</p><p class="p1">“It’s the only thing we know.” Jaskier tries to force another small bit of bread into his mouth and down his throat but it feels nearly impossible to swallow. He washes it down with a sip of coffee and tries again. There’s so much to unpack in that one sentence that Jaskier pushes it down to deal with later in favor of returning to the original problem.</p><p class="p1">So, he’s married. It’s a definite at this point. No one here would deny it. They all respected the handfasting ceremony. It aligns with what he’s heard about Geralt’s political stance regarding non-human settlements. Rumors spread like wildfire claiming that he’d made space for the elves to reclaim their Kingdoms, that they were given equal citizenship and legal protections that no other land in the Continent afforded them. It makes sense that they’d respect a custom that they developed, too. What does that mean for him? What does that mean for Geralt? Jaskier feels the ice in his stomach spreading, making it impossible to continue shoving food down his throat.</p><p class="p1">Once all of this is finally sorted is he going to be able to leave? Will he even still want to? All Jaskier has wanted is his freedom, he’s fought and sacrificed for it. He wants travel and adventure and to make a name for himself as the most lauded bard in the Continent. He wants his songs to last lifetimes. To make history. Will that be stolen from him when Yennefer reinforces the spell? And if not, then, will he even be able to enjoy it? Or will is heart yearn ceaselessly to return to Geralt’s side, regardless if he’s wanted there or not?</p><p class="p1">He knows what Yennefer promised him but he can’t quite believe her. He’ll be a slave. He can’t help but feel like every step he’s taken since he’s gotten here has only led him deeper into the spiderweb and now he’s so entangled that there’s no escape. He’s surrounded, ensorcelled, and lost.</p><p class="p1">There is no happiness to be found with Geralt. No one wants their fate to be intertwined with someone who would never be able to look them in the eye and say ‘I love you’. Jaskier could say it a thousand times but he’ll never know if it’s true. No one deserves that kind of torture. Least of all Geralt. He’s fought so hard for his people to have that, to know that they can have that. It seems a cruel twist of fate that he would be saddled with a man who would never be able to provide it.</p><p class="p1">“Thinking really hard over there, stow away.” Jaskier jumps at the feeling of yet another grape being thrown at him. When he finds it this time he merely throws it back at Eskel, who watches it lazily miss him entirely. Jaskier pouts as he watches it hit the back of a chair and bounce into the seat. It’s the grape’s fault, of course, Jaskier is a perfect shot.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. Lots to think about these days.” Eskel picks up the platter that Jaskier really hasn’t touched at all and stacks it onto his own, now clean, to start picking at the portion allotted for him. “Thanks for bringing me food even if I couldn’t stomach it.”</p><p class="p1">“You gonna talk to me about it or are you gonna make me pull it outta you bit by painful bit?” Jaskier shrugs one shoulder and feels mischievous.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know. Which one’ll be easier, do you think?”</p><p class="p1">“Not fucking that one.” Jaskier smirks, spirts lifting for a moment, feeling that delicious need to get a rise out of someone.</p><p class="p1">“Well, sure, for you. But we’re talking about for me right now.” Eskel gives him a baleful look at that and it settles the energy thrumming through Jaskier. He takes a moment to gather himself, to bite back the swarm of everything he wants to say. He’s been dealing with a lot of shit lately, he’s scared and confused and fucking pissed. He lets out a sigh and rubs a hand across his face. “I just feel like I’ve made such an ass out of myself.” Jaskier smiles, rueful, and starts picking at the dirt under his nails. It seems like there’s always dirt under his nails these days, no matter how much he picks at them.</p><p class="p1">“Oh?” Eskel prompts him after a long moment of Jaskier’s continuing silence. It seems that Eskel wasn’t just making talk when he warned him that he’d pull the answer out of him if he had to. Jaskier realizes with a start that Eskel may just be the closest friend he’s ever had.</p><p class="p1">“Y-yeah. I was so distracted by helping my friend that I didn’t think about the consequences my decisions would have had on Geralt. And now he’s stuck with me and this shit curse.” Jaskier shakes his head and is reminded of his hangover by the thumping that had receded into something ignorable flares up suddenly at the movement. It feels like another bloodrush and he presses three fingers to each temple to rub it out. “Gods, I just feel so selfish and stupid. I should have known about the handfasting.” Jaskier flinches at the surprising touch of a hand to his neck but he melts into it immediately when he realizes what it is. Eskel’s hand is warm, and strong, and he grips the back of his neck with comforting strength. It’s a deeply comforting and reassuring touch, and it’s the first time that Eskel has reached out to touch him first. Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh and leans into it. He can feel the nervous energy in his skin finally seep out of him. He didn’t realize how much tension he held in his body until Eskel’s touch. Is this how little kittens feel when their mothers transport them by the scruff of their necks? His whole body feels lax.</p><p class="p1">“You did right by your friend, Geralt would agree that it was the right choice. None of us were excited at the prospect of Dalimira’s arrival. It made us feel like monsters, keeping beautiful princesses locked away in high towers.” Eskel says it with a gentle smile and a soft squeeze and releases him. Jaskier has to bite back a whine, suddenly flooded with a desperate desire to curl up into his side and bury his nose in Eskel’s chest for the remainder of the day. He smells warm, a little like hay, with a natural musk, and a buried scent of something else, something metallic. He wants to fill his nostrils with it.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck it.” Jaskier mutters and rolls his eyes before doing just that. He’s earned some fucking physical comfort dammit. Jaskier moves slowly, projecting his movements after an earlier interaction taught him that witchers are jumpy. He tucks himself into Eskel’s side, leaning against him like his own witcher-chair, and presses his cheek into Eskel’s chest. He’s tense but he lets Jaskier cuddle up to him without complaint. Jaskier’s stomach certainly doesn’t enjoy all the extra jostling so he just rests against Eskel’s solid warmth for a while, breathing slowly to help settle everything, allowing the scent to soothe him.</p><p class="p1">Eskel’s been here since the first day. He’s always been kind, always humored him, answered his questions and even seemed to enjoy it, too. Eskel might be his best friend. It’s a strange thought to have because Jaskier knows so many people. Collegues, class mates, contacts in several different courts. People he’s sang with, danced with, laughed with, and fucked around with, had big conversations and small ones with, and not once has he felt this comfortable. He doesn’t feel restricted by courtly etiquette or propriety here, it was laughed out of him pretty quickly in the Keep, and he hasn’t been this comfortable somewhere in a long time. And here’s Eskel, checking in on him, letting him cuddle up to him, bringing him breakfast, and worrying about him.</p><p class="p1">“I think you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had.” Jaskier’s throat feels tight, and his eyes are stinging and he thinks if he’s not careful he might cry soon which he has tried all day to not do. It really has been a long fucking week. He can practically feel Eskel floundering for the right reaction, his body tensing even more. “I’ve just been having an incredibly fucking difficult two weeks.” Jaskier presses the heel of his palms into his eyes and pulls in a deep breath. Eskel stays quiet and Jaskier spends a few minutes trying to decide if he’s thankful for it or upset that he isn’t getting soothing words when he feels a gentle but firm pressure wrapping around his wrist.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier sniffs and blinks his eyes to try and encourage them to focus through the blurriness. Eskel’s arm is resting along his shoulder so he can hold his wrist and he’s pulled Jaskier’s hand away from his face in order to get a better look at the bruising on his wrist. Just three thin light purple marks from Geralt’s tight hold the day before. While he usually feels proud of his bruises, this particular moment only has him feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. He should dig around in Dimmy’s bags and see if he can find a powder that might help dull them.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry about it, Eskel.” Jaskier gently pulls his wrist free, tucking his hands away into his crossed arms and sliding down a little further into his floor, hoping it would swallow him up. “Backed a wolf into a corner.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke but he can feel the wave of heat rolling off of Eskel’s body indicating his anger. “Honestly, it was nothing I didn’t ask for.” Eskel’s arm stays where it landed to reach his wrist, drapped over his shoulder, and he says nothing. They sit in silence for a while with a strange tension between them that Jaskier would normally want to fill but today he just doesn’t have it in him. Eskel will like him anyway, will gladly sit through the tense silence in a way that Jaskier hasn’t known anyone else willing to do.</p><p class="p1">“What’s going on, Jaskier?” It’s enough. A few tears start to fall, hot on his cheeks, and he starts to shake again. That metallic scent in the air becomes strangely stronger, but Jaskier doesn’t think anything of it. It’s just his mind grasping for a distraction from the tears.</p><p class="p1">“I’m dealing with a fucking fae love curse because my life has become a shitty fucking smut novel.” Eskel chuckles and the sound of it helps startle a laugh out of Jaskier, too. “Gods, I feel so fucking lost.”</p><p class="p1">“Is that why you were drinking with Yen?” Jaskier sniffs and wipes at his eyes, confused. “Were you talking to her about dealing with the curse?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, yeah. It’s not really the type of conversation one can have without vodka.” Jaskier feels a little more balanced now even though he’s only spared a few tears. He could easily cry more, it’s the first time since he’s arrived that he’s allowed himself to cry at all, but he hasn’t cried in front of someone since he was thirteen. Not a full out sob like how he wants to at least. He stuffs his emotions back down and lets out a heavy sigh, releasing the last of his tension. He feels tired, sleep beginning to creep into his bones and make him feel heavy.</p><p class="p1">“Are you going to be okay?” Eskel’s voice is louder, his head tilted closer to his ear, but his tone is quieter, worried. Jaskier just shrugs, jostling Eskel in the process.</p><p class="p1">“I sure fucking hope so.”</p><p class="p1">“And Geralt?” Jaskier sees Eskel’s hand indicate his own hands still tucked away in his crossed arms. Well, it looks like Eskel isn’t willing to let him slink away from that conversation, either.</p><p class="p1">“What about Geralt?”</p><p class="p1">“Why is Geralt bruising you, Jaskier.” Jaskier bites his lip and huffs. Nope, no slinking away from this one.</p><p class="p1">“I may be cursed to love him but it doesn’t make me blind. The man is gorgeous.” Sarcasm and levity are the only crutches that will allow him to get through this. Of course Eskel knows about the curse, at the very least that he is cursed, he’d heard their conversation in the carriage enough to know that Jaskier wasn’t Dalimira. Didn’t take too much to connect those dots not for someone as smart as Eskel.</p><p class="p1">“Aw, Jaskier, have you forgotten me so easily?” Jaskier giggles and he hopes that’s the last of it, thankful that he took the bait and made it easy. “Is it the best idea to… indulge the curse like this?” Jaskier shrugs again, giving up on escaping this conversation. It’s nice, though, that Eskel wants to be sure he’s okay. Or maybe he’s asking for Geralt. Either way, it’s nice.</p><p class="p1">“What does it matter? I’ll be stuck with this forever, may as well enjoy it, right?” He says it before he brain has a real chance of catching up with him and it comes out so quick and so, so bitterly. Eskel’s quiet for a long time and Jaskier settles in. Eskel’s breathing is slow and Jaskier can feel his chest moving with each breath, but it’s comforting instead of upsetting his nausea. He can feel his body beginning to heat up, getting sleepy again. </p><p class="p1">“It’s a choice?” It takes a minute for Eskel’s question to reach him through his sleepiness and then it takes him just a little bit longer after that to understand it. He’s not asking if he’s making the choice to not fight the curse, he’s asking if he even can.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, it’s a choice.” Jaskier smirks, a little rueful, and a lot hurt. He can feel Eskel relax, his whole body bleeding out the tension he’s held since Jaskier cuddled up to him to begin with and if Jaskier weren’t two minutes from sleep he’d probably make a whole production of swooning. Eskel cares about him.</p><p class="p1">“If it’s any comfort, Jaskier, I do think that the strings of fate are a little stronger than the chaos that rules the world.” Jaskier touches the back of his neck to chase the warmth still there from Eskel’s touch and smirks.</p><p class="p1">“Why, <em>Eskel</em>. You’re a romantic.” That earns him a light jostling that makes Jaskier physically feel the color green but he supposes he’s earned it.</p><p class="p1">“Keep it to yourself, little stow away.” Still. Destiny. It’s a kind thought. Geralt himself doesn’t seem to put much weight on the idea but Eskel does. One would think that men who lived so long would be able to come to an agreement about things like destiny. They settle into an easy silence and Jaskier manages to make it through half the small loaf of bread before he’s ready to fall back into bed for the rest of the day. It’s good though, it feels nice, comfortable.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s in the storerooms. He’s trying not to think about why he’s in the storerooms, just continues to dig through all the shit strewn about in a vaguely organized chaos, looking for a pair of boots. He’s felt off balance all day. His morning training only helping for so long. The peace talks only made it worse, and when he’d gotten back he felt like he was going to burst out of his skin. He could recognize that if he didn’t do something to release this he’d end up scratching at the stone walls, begging for a fight. He ignored why. It was easy to ignore why and just focus on the effect and how to assuage it. </p><p class="p1">Thus, the fucking boots.</p><p class="p1">He’s tired of hearing Jaskier’s bare feet slapping against the stones. He should’ve brought him a pair of boots a week ago. That’s all this is. Just providing for someone in the Keep who’s in need. Something to occupy his mind and keep his hands moving and hopefully settle himself when he’s finally fucking found a pair that will actually fit. He’s taller than he seems, nearly his height.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” He bites back the growl because it would indicate that he’s been surprised and Eskel’s tone doesn’t promise anything good and he’s busy and, frankly, just not in the fucking mood. His back is turned to the door and he keeps it that way, hopefully Eskel will just leave if he pretends he’s not there long enough. “You fucking bruised him?” That stops him in his tracks. He tosses the boot he’s got in his hand, it’s too small anyway, and stands up straight. He focuses on Eskel’s heartbeat, thumping along at it’s usual speed, so not too mad. Geralt takes a long moment to focus on grounding himself before turning around to face him.</p><p class="p1">He does not look happy. His face is pinched and he’s glowering. Geralt crosses his arms and tries to parse through everything his four word sentence made him feel. Pride. Shame. Vulnerable. Frustrated that he’d allowed his emotions to take such control of him. Enough to actually mark him. Jaskier isn’t his, he shouldn’t have done it, and now Eskel’s here to berate him for it. Great. Just what he needed.</p><p class="p1">“He’s worried about you, you know.” That takes him by surprise. He huffs and tries to ignore that, too. Jaskier is turning into a much bigger problem with every passing day that he’s here and it’s really starting to make his skin boil. Eskel’s expression softens, and he looks tired. “You need to talk to him, Geralt.” Geralt frowns, unable to maintain his eye contact with Eskel. The tight look of exhaustion in his eyes is hard to see, it makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. He has no intention of speaking, he’s gone three weeks once without uttering a single syllable and he can do it again.</p><p class="p1">It seems the only one who’s ever managed to make him speak when he has no intention of doing so is Jaskier. Annoyance.</p><p class="p1">Eskel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, a clear sign of giving up. Geralt restrains from showing any physical signs of his relief, the direction this conversation has been going in hasn’t been great for his nerves.</p><p class="p1">“Please, just. Tell me what’s going on.” Geralt’s body slumps, all tension lost, and he gives up. There’s no point in trying to deny Eskel when he uses that voice. It’s gentle but hollow, exhausted in a way that Geralt doesn’t hear from Eskel, even in the moments when he’s had his fingers knuckle deep in his torn flesh, blood pouring from far too quickly. Fucker, knows exactly which buttons to press and does it without remorse. Geralt doesn’t speak to the floor, no matter how much he wants to, forcing himself to meet Eskel’s gaze and maintain it. Eskel’s expression is kept just as unreadable as his own. It’s easier like this. Admitting to emotions without judgement, without having to own them, something clinical. It’s an old pattern, the way Eskel would approach him before this warlord mess. It’s comforting.</p><p class="p1">“I like him.” Geralt says it with gritted teeth. Eskel huffs out a bemused chuckle, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“So you bruise him?”</p><p class="p1">“He’s cursed.” Eskel’s face immediately drops, eyebrows and lips pinching in concern. Geralt watches the way Eskel’s mind makes the necessary jumps, he’s smart, he trusts him to make the right conclusions. He’s still not sure what Eskel’s intentions with this conversation are, what it is exactly that he’s asking Geralt to tell him. Everyone likes Jaskier here, is it so strange he does, too?</p><p class="p1">Well, the bruises might confuse it, yeah.</p><p class="p1">“When someone competent tells me they’re capable of making their own decisions I usually let them.” Geralt has clearly underestimated the amount of time Jaskier has been spending with Eskel. It’s not a surprise, well, it shouldn’t be a surprise, after the week he’d spent being constantly updated about Jaskier’s goings-on by Eskel himself. Still, Jaskier’s spoken about his curse with Eskel. It’s not something one would expect someone to just speak about loosely.</p><p class="p1">“He can’t,-”</p><p class="p1">“He can.” Geralt huffs, ready to really start arguing, but the new stance Eskel has taken makes him pause. His jaw is set, tight, and his arms are crossed but it doesn’t hide how his hands are balled into tight fists. But it’s his eyes that really steal the fight from him. Eskel’s eyes are burning, stern and righteous.</p><p class="p1">Well, of the two of them, Eskel would know wouldn’t he.</p><p class="p1">“Look, uh, I’m not going to force you to talk to me about this. I don’t want to pull teeth anymore, not with you. So, talk to me or don’t.” Eskel rolls his eyes and drops his arms and turns to leave and Geralt watches him do it. Eskel’s only seen one side of this situation and he’d come here to get the other before he got mad, and he’s got good reason to be mad. Jaskier is his friend.</p><p class="p1">“It was supposed to be Dalimira.” Eskel pauses in the doorway but, thankfully, doesn’t turn around to face him again. It’s cowardly, and he should really be better about admitting to his shit by now, but it’s easier to admit his fears to his brother’s back. “It’d be easier, with Dalimira.” He grinds his teeth and waits for Eskel to say something. He doesn’t want to be seen as weak, or nervous, not from a human, but he is and he has before. It’s probably not that, probably not that he is nervous, but that he’s nervous for a new human. Everyone here was so terrified when Ciri was born, they all had to make those adjustments together, but this? Geralt is left to flounder his way through this on his own.</p><p class="p1">“You’re allowed to, you know. We all hoped this would be something happier than it was.” Eskel leans against the doorway, almost falls into it really, and slowly turns so his back is pressed into the door jam. He still doesn’t turn to face him but like this Geralt can see half of his face, the scarred half. He’s got a small twist to his mouth that suggests a smile, something small and genuine. Hopeful.</p><p class="p1">“He’ll leave.” Eskel shakes his head and his smile grows, still genuine, and fond, too. Like he’s rolling his eyes at himself for something.</p><p class="p1">“He’s human. That’s what they do.” Eskel finally tilts his head and looks at him. He looks at Geralt with love, and it helps ease a tension in Geralt’s chest that he didn’t know he was struggling with. Geralt takes a moment to marvel at where he is in his life, how he’s found himself here. Digging in the storerooms for boots while his brother waxes poetic about loving a fucking human.</p><p class="p1">Someone else has seen Jaskier and found him able. His choices can be trusted and it’s a conclusion met by someone who isn’t him. Who doesn’t have his bias, the same need to ignore any evidence that would suggest Jaskier’s choices can’t be trusted. It feels like Eskel’s words have unlocked a door. He won’t open it, not yet, but he could if he wanted to.</p><p class="p1">“Come in here and help me find some fucking boots. This place is a disaster.”</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Two days. He’s going to give himself two days. It’s all he’s going to allow. Jaskier won’t let this go on any longer than that. He watches the sun set from his window, lute in his lap, and decides that he’ll have two days locked away in his room, working on his craft, and feeling fucking sorry for himself.</p><p class="p1">He pours over his notes, building lyrics, making notes about tone and mood which leads to rough melodies, basic rhythm structures, and before he’s noticed he not only has dinner it’s also cold.</p><p class="p1">He can write two different cycles. Ever since he’s grown wise to Geralt’s entire goal here he’s had an idea scratching in the back of his head. One cycle dedicated to the monster stories he came here for. Ditties and ballads and tunes that would be too catchy to forget, all of which will cast the witchers as the heroes, the saviors. And once the crowds are all buttered up and ready to see the witchers might be more than something terrifying he’ll start breaking out the real stuff. Songs that immortalize their histories, their actual histories. Songs about Geralt. Fuck, he’s going to write so many songs about Geralt.</p><p class="p1">He’s going to change their reputation. He’s going to build up their reputations, change their perception. All the work that’s been done to vilify them by different religious orders and power hungry nobility will crumble under his efforts.</p><p class="p1">And if, during moments when he’s stumped, or moments when he needs to distract himself, or just when he’s found an interesting melody that doesn’t fit any of the lyrics he’s been working on lately, he writes loves songs? Well. No need in wasting a good melody. It’s good for him. He can get it all out of his system, just have fun, write things just for him.</p><p class="p1">It’s not even his own fucking love but he could write so many songs about it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">____________________</p><p class="p1">“It’s been three days.” Ciri’s been staring out the door, grumpy and pouting. She’s twelve so he doesn’t point out the fact that she’s pouting because the last time he made that mistake she’d been angry for two days for him ‘treating her like a child’.</p><p class="p1">It bothers him how much this bothers her. He can’t think of a single good reason for her to be as upset as she is. Jaskier’s presence in the Keep has had a strange effect on Ciri, from the way she’s suddenly returned to her instrument with an enthusiasm he’d never seen even before Calanthe died to the new space between them. It’s strange that Jaskier would be catalyst for their last few arguments.</p><p class="p1">“Is he not going to play again?” Ciri turns to face him and he can see the worry under her pout now, in her eyes and the way her eyebrows are tilted. This isn’t the first time that Geralt’s felt like Ciri is lying to him, but now he pays more attention to the instinct. He watches Ciri roll her eyes and slump back into the couch further, crossing her arms and glaring at her food.</p><p class="p1">“Eat, Ciri. He’ll come back in his own time.” Perhaps it’s his fault. The kiss they’d shared, the pleasant way he’d begged, it might have embarrassed him. Geralt did push him away, and Jaskier doesn’t seem the type who has had to face too much of that before. A wounded ego, maybe? It unsettles him. Jaskier has so clearly made himself and his desires known and yet Geralt is still hiding behind his walls, ignoring and avoiding. And for what?</p><p class="p1">Ciri picks at her food, eating slowly through her sour mood, and he doesn’t like it. Something as simple as three days without music is enough to make her this upset? Jaskier has never had any intention of staying in the Keep, did Ciri think this would last forever? It occurs to him then that he’d never explained this to her. Jaskier may be his husband, but he’s a wandering bard, too. Geralt wouldn’t hold him here, he never would have held Dalimira here, either, but she would have been held here by court laws, expectation, necessity. It’s hard for a woman to make her own money, especially one who’s never worked before, but if she’d wanted to, Geralt shakes his head. It’s not Dalimira, it’s Jaskier and Jaskier doesn’t have any of those same ties.</p><p class="p1">Should he speak to her about this? She’s lost plenty of people before, what’s one man she’s never even met? Still, she should be prepared. Or, well, he has made a few assumptions, it’s possible that this is as innocent as missing his lively music in the halls.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri,” she turns to face him, expectant, with her pout easily melting away, “I think I’ve made a mistake in explaining something to you.” She sits up, curious. He watches her and is reminded of his suspicions once more in her subtle nervousness, but that can be easily excused. It’s strange and he doesn’t like it. “Jaskier won’t be living here the way that Dalimira would have.” Ciri’s face scrunches up in confusion and disbelief.</p><p class="p1">“What? Why not?” Yes, he’s really dropped the ball on this one. He’d forgotten that Ciri would have expectations of Jaskier’s place here in the Keep and that she would not have thought to change those expectations upon this discovery of his deception. She’d wanted Jaskier to be more than a political marriage, he should have nipped this in the ass when he’d first noticed it.</p><p class="p1">“Legally, in the rest of the Continent, he is not considered my spouse, Dalimira is. So he isn’t tied here by the same expectations that Dalimira would have been. And, he wishes to travel the Continent, who are we to deny him that?” Ciri’s shoulders slump and she allows her fork to clatter onto the table, tossed with frustration. It’s not something he usually allows, but he’s not willing to bring it up right now, either. He really likes that table, dammit.</p><p class="p1">“So he’s not even going to stay? Is he ever even going to come back?” She’s upset. It looks like she’s struggling to decide if she’s going to be angry or continue her pouting and Geralt has no clue what to do about it. He is admittedly just as upset about the prospect of Jaskier leaving and never returning as she is, but it’s not something he expected. It takes him a moment to put together his thoughts, to regain his footing, once he realizes that. “I’m never going to meet him, am I?” Geralt scratches at his neck, uncomfortable all of a sudden. No, he’d never intended for Jaskier to meet her. He’s going to be wandering to Continent, free, and knowing about her would have been far too much of a risk that he’s comfortable with. Ciri stands up and storms off, muttering ‘<em>whatever</em>’ with more attitude than he’s ever heard from someone so small.</p><p class="p1">Well, he thinks, it could’ve gone worse.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">He spends that evening throughly cleaning the boots he’d found with Eskel’s help. Evenings make him feel twitchy these days and he’s thankful for the small project, something to keep him distracted. It doesn’t distract him enough to prevent his mind from circling back to thoughts of Jaskier. He’d known that Jaskier wouldn’t stay in the Keep forever, he came here for a specific purpose and that will be filled soon. And yet, here he is, scrubbing a pair of boots that the man doesn’t even want, and worrying himself over that fact. He doesn’t want Jaskier to leave. He’s come to enjoy the life and music and light that Jaskier has brought into his Keep and he doesn’t know if any other bard would be able to live up to his example.</p><p class="p1">There are many things in his life that he regrets. Actions taken and actions not taken. He’s a warlord now, he owns lands, and he’s asking his brothers to lay their swords down and abandon the path should they so choose. Why does he resist his own chance at the very fate he’s fought to provide for his people? If Jaskier were to leave without Geralt ever touching him again, would it be counted among his regrets?</p><p class="p1">Why add to those lists now?</p><p class="p1">He sets the boots down next to the door along their own shoes and moves to stand at the base of the hidden stairs leading up to Ciri’s rooms. He can hear her heartbeat distantly, gently sleeping, and the sound of it relaxes him. He stands in the hall listening to her for a moment longer before turning back towards his own rooms.</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Jaskier!” Jaskier relaxes at Triss’s smile and walks into the room. He’s made a habit of visiting her after the ‘Dimmy Impersonation’ meetings but thetwo days he’s spent alone in his rooms made him anxious about reentering society. He feels like everyone can see it on him, but he’s had years of practice at hiding his insecurity. So he walks in confidently, and smiling, and leaning over the countertop, squeezing his forearms on the narrow clean space available. “I have something for you.” She says it in a sing song voice, smiling her brilliant smile. She’s already got a kettle going and all of Jaskier’s anxiety flies away. She likes him. He’s made some really good friends here.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? Presents! You shouldn’t have.” Jaskier bounces one his feet, excited, and watches her retrieve a crate full of books. Jaskier pouts. “Aw, Triss. This isn’t a fun present.” Triss rolls his eyes and Jaskier takes them so she can get back to the kettle just moments before it starts whistling.</p><p class="p1">“I took the liberty of pulling all the witcher journals that have any mentions of interacting with fae.” Triss picks up the kettle with a folded red cloth and pours out two mugs of boiling water before dumping the rest into a large bowl. That strange scent he’d noticed when he came in becomes much more pungent. Better try to avoid a direct glance in that direction, then.</p><p class="p1">“There are more witchers’ journals?” Jaskier tries to open up the book on the top of the pile in his arms, suddenly burning with curiosity, but Triss shoves two tins under his nose.</p><p class="p1">“Which one do you want?” Jaskier blinks, pulling his head back to see what she’s up to and he realizes that it’s two different tins of tea. He frowns before leaning down to scent them because making a choice is the quickest way to return to his wonderful gift she’s given him. They’re both sweet, but the second one smells like it’s got way more caffeine.</p><p class="p1">“Ohhh, that one.” Jaskier points with his nose and Triss nods, turning back to the counter to fill two silver decanters with the leaves. Jaskier plops down on a stool near the counter where Triss is puttering about and gingerly sets down the crate of journals on the floor by his feet before picking up the top one.</p><p class="p1">“Of course there are other journals, the library has an entire section dedicated to them. It’s good for the trainees to have.” The journal has small pieces of tape sticking out in three different areas and Jaskier flips it open to those pages. The writing doesn’t match what he remembers from the journal he’d come across during his years at Oxenfurt and he’s surprised that he’s disappointed. What are the chances of finding the owner of that same journal? He’s not even sure he would recognize the handwriting it’s been almost four years since he’d held that journal in his hands. He should’ve just stolen it like he wanted to.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve been here almost two weeks and it never once occurred to me that there might be a library. How stupid of me.” The mere thought of a witcher library has him salivating. Triss sets down a steaming cup close to his elbow and walks around him to the wall covered in shelves holding up all those scary jars.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, there’s so many books we had to set up a small council to determine which books would be accepted or not. Witchers live quite a long time and they tend to hoard things, quite a few of them seem to love to read.” Oh, gods, the books that must be on those shelves. Jaskier may just barricade himself in those walls and dedicate the remainder of his life to the secrets that are stacked on those shelves.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can hear all gentle clinks from the glass as Triss collects more jars but he pays her no mind for now, allowing a short burst of silence. He’s gotten quite used to Triss’s conversational rhythm so he doesn’t feel the need to fill the space the way he would with anyone else. He’s busy examining the illustration on the left side of the page of the journal on his knee. It’s intricate and masterfully done, colored with watercolors, or maybe thin washes of ink. His fingers slowly follow the gentle shapes of the flowers, gentle and reverent. It seems that some witchers are artists, too.</p><p class="p1">“It must be a library rivaling the likes of Oxenfurt’s.” Jaskier’s not fully paying attention to the conversation anymore if he’s being honest. He lost the thread at some point, distracted by the gift he’s been handed. He’s picked up a new journal in the time it took him to finally answer her and this one has far more tabs in it which seems baffling. He can’t help but skim through each tab, curious about what could have possibly happened to force a witcher to interact with the fae so often. Each entry is barebones, just a few sentences, fucking witchers. This book doesn’t feature any drawings but each entry includes the same methodical lists. An inventory, coin earned, meals skipped, even a mood tracker. It seems this particular witcher was interested in statistics of some sort, maybe trying to exact as much control over the one thing he can control. Jaskier smiles up at her and sets the journal down on top of the first one he’d opened.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you.” Triss just smiles before turning her attention to the large bowl, the strange smell, and opening up all the jars cradled in her arm. They continue on in silence, even her work sounds subdued. He continues to flip through to journals, skimming them, noting how many tabs each boasts and trying to pick out the obvious differences in the journals. Plenty of them have drawings, though none as beautifully rendered as the in the first. One of them is stuffed full with odds and ends, feathers, buttons, flyers, and letters. It’s so intimate, so personal, that Jaskier can’t help but feel like he’s invading despite the fact that he’s been given them because they’ve been made available to everyone.</p><p class="p1">He flips open the next book at a random page, but this one only boasts one tab. It’s the last one in the pile so he supposes it’s par for the course. He flips through the pages slowly, enraptured by one page that was dedicated to mapping out this witcher’s scars. They’re carefully rendered, to the point to where Jaskier is certain that if he were so see a lineup of nude witchers he’d be able to locate exactly who’d drawn this. It’s such a strange hobby, keeping track of scars, and Jaskier’s mind burns with the desire to know the reasoning behind it. He continues to flip through the pages, curious if there are more illustrations, but he finds himself running his fingers over the shape of the lettering. It takes some time flipping through the pages before he finally figures out why he’s so interested, why it feels like he’s staring at a puzzle piece. The second he recognizes it he sits up a little straighter in his seat, setting down his tea, and flips the book back to the first page, and there, in the same messy scrawl, is his name.</p><p class="p1">Geralt of Rivia 1140-1153</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s mouth falls open and his shoulders fall, a warm and tingling sensation running down his spine. His heart speeds up just a little and he feels a flutter in his chest. Geralt. Of course. Jaskier traces the shape of Geralt’s name with reverence. The journal he’d found hidden among the shelves of Oxenfurt belonged to Geralt, his fucking <em>husband</em>. He’s been writing music about Geralt his whole life. Jaskier closes the journal and sets it back onto the pile, rolling his eyes. Even for destiny it seems a little on the nose.</p><p class="p1">Still, his heart soars.</p><p class="p1">“Anything useful in there?” Triss doesn’t turn around to see him, but he still feels caught. He takes a moment to scrabble together a good enough response with his tea wrapped around his hands. If he occupies his hands maybe he won’t feel the need to paw at Geralt’s journal. It’s too intimate. It’s not his to know. He’s fucking desperate to know.</p><p class="p1">“A couple of promising things to read into later. Thank you for this, it’s incredibly kind.” Each journal kept on after all the tabbed fae interactions so at the very least he may be able to glean some type of insight on how to get away with his life.</p><p class="p1">“It’s dangerous.” Jaskier nods, staring at the way the sunlight is cast onto the floor. The sun is beginning to set and soon either Triss or someone else will come find him and escort him to his rooms. He’s curious about something, about Ciri, and if he’s going to find out today then he’ll need to ask soon.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah.” She’s been gone for the past few days, and while he’s thankful because he’d really needed the time alone, he knows that she’ll be knocking on his doors sooner or later. Truthfully he’s missed her and her wild eyed enthusiasm for his trade. He hopes to hear her rendition of the elvish lover’s tragedy on the clavichord one day, but he doubts it will be anytime soon. Ciri’s informed him that they’ll be allowed to meet when Geralt has deemed him trustworthy but he sincerely doubts that that’ll be coming anytime soon, either. He hasn’t done much to gain Geralt’s trust lately.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier?” Jaskier’s revere snaps and he looks up to Triss, wide-eyed and curious. She smiles at him, sweet and a little concerned, and he relaxes the tension that had been building in his shoulders.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry, my mind seems to have gotten away from me today.” Jaskier feels morose again. It’s been a long day, perhaps he can sink into his bed and allow himself another few hours of wallowing. His heart feels so sore. “Ah, what’s dangerous, exactly?”</p><p class="p1">“The fae, little stow away.” She gives him a serious look and he feels caught. He should’ve noticed what she was doing but he’d been so distracted by the journals that he’d forgotten to make some token arguments about how he didn’t have any intentions of finding the fae.</p><p class="p1">“Well. There’s always the chance that Yennefer will be able to break the spell and I won’t need this information.” She’s busy paying attention to her work but he can still feel her judgement. “Thank you, though. For assisting. Despite the fact that it’s a shit idea.” She doesn’t answer, too caught up in whatever’s caused the bowl she’s been watching to vibrate.</p><p class="p1">Two days working on songs about the witchers and their place in the world and it’s occurred to him that he has some questions about Cintra. Cintra and Ciri and Geralt’s involvement in the two. He can’t exactly ask about Ciri, though, because he quite likes having his head squarely on his shoulders but he can ask about Cintra. That line of questioning might kill two birds with one stone.</p><p class="p1">“Triss?” Jaskier can tell that she’s listening despite her attention not veering away from the bowl. It would worry him but she hasn’t asked for his assistance so he won’t offer it. He has learned that there are things in this room he should not touch. “Tell me about Cintra?” He can see Triss’s mind stop. Her whole body stops, mid-motion, hands hanging in the air, mouth falling open a little, and it’s the first time he’s seen her look confused. The moment is just that, a moment, but it was long enough for him to see it so he knows that he’s just hit a chord. There’s something about Cintra, something that makes Triss nervous, and Jaskier is practically salivating. </p><p class="p1">“What is it that you’d like to know?” Jaskier hesitates himself this time, just a moment of anxiety that tells him maybe he shouldn’t ask. Of course, he doesn’t pay attention to that impulse at all because he never has. </p><p class="p1">“The barker you left with Emhyr’s head, at the gates of Cintra, was he telling the truth?” It takes her a long time before she speaks. He spends his time in silence, draining his tea, watching her hands fly around her workspace.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t really remember everything the barker was told to say, but I know he wasn’t told a single lie.” Jaskier nods, contemplating the answer. Confirming what the barker said without admitting to any of it, just in case. It’s smart, a good answer. One that would quell most follow up questions for most people.</p><p class="p1">“Well, it was a little over a year ago now when I heard the news of it, but I can remember the insistence that Emhyr was the one who sacked the Cintran castle, not Geralt.” Triss sighs and for a brief moment, she looks like she’s ancient. Millennia weighing her down. The stories she knows, the time she’s lived, it’s breathtaking to think about. The bowl sparks, which is terrifying, and it recaptures Triss’s attention. He should probably stop asking her questions because it’s clearly too distracting for her to maintain her attention on the bowl and the bowl is going to kill them.</p><p class="p1">He’s probably upset her. He’s asking her about the messy part, the war part, the killing and the blood. It’s not something he’s ever bothered to ask anyone about before, not something he’s ever bothered to think about, really. He watches her wrangle the bowl into it’s place, which takes a while. Long enough that Jaskier’s certain that the conversation has been dropped and he’s picked up a journal. Geralt’s journal to be specific, because he no control.</p><p class="p1">“Emhyr was the rightful heir to Nilfgaard. He’d been run out of his Kingdom when his father was assassinated. At some point he weaseled his way into the Cintran court and after that he managed to weasel his way into this one.” Jaskier watches her speak, shocked. Secrets, even more secrets, delicious secrets, spilling from her lips. The barker outside of the gates informed everyone of who Emhyr was and his infiltration of the Cintran court with intentions to claim Geralt’s land as well, but no one knows about a connection between the Cintran court and Geralt’s. This must be the thread, why Ciri is heir apparent for the Conquered Lands.</p><p class="p1">“He attacked Cintra at the same time he attacked the Keep. It was a shit show, no one saw it coming.” Triss’s gaze glazes over and Jaskier wonders what she’s seeing in that head of hers. “He had about thirty mages on his side, only the gods know how he managed to get thirty fucking mages.”Jaskier takes a moment to revel in the glee he feels from Triss saying fuck. “By the time we were able to take a second to breathe it was too late. Cintra was leveled.” It’s puzzle pieces but earlier he’d almost found the thread so where the fuck did the puzzle fit in? </p><p class="p1">“Why not take it? Why leave it in a four year succession crisis? You killed the man who leveled it, you have a better claim on Cintra than anyone else.” Triss shrugs.</p><p class="p1">“I won’t pretend to know why Geralt makes the decisions he does. I agree, though, if it eases your curiosity. I think it would have been better if we’d just made the claim and took it.” Triss picks up the bowl and pours it into a jar slowly. “Of course, we probably wouldn’t have gotten this far in the peace talks if he had. No knowing for certain.”</p><p class="p1">“Conquering an entire section of the Continent seems like a pretty serious form of retaliation for one leveled castle.” Triss screws the lid on the jar and spends a long time wiping her hands on a rag, leveling him with a serious glare. Probably just found the line and stepped right over it at the same time. He straightens his back and feels nervous.</p><p class="p1">“We lost a lot of good friends, Jaskier.”</p><p class="p1">“Right, shit, sorry.” Jaskier flips a few pages, chewing on his next question. Triss hasn’t given him the look that tells him it’s time to shut up, and he’s not certain if he wants to push her to making it again. But. Well.</p><p class="p1">He’s such a fucking nosy bastard.</p><p class="p1">“But why did Emhyr attack Cintra? Why waste the manpower when he was trying to take down the most powerful Warlord in the South?” It doesn’t make sense. How did Emhyr infiltrate Cintra? And then the Keep itself? Full of witchers and at least two mages who can fucking smell lies? What’s the connection? He twirls the ring on his finger to give himself something to do with his hands. They’re full of restless energy right now.</p><p class="p1">“Not my place.” Jaskier nods, and <em>doesn’t</em> pout.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, but who’s place would it be? Hypothetically.” Now Triss gives him that look that tells him to shut up. He can feel his lips turning up into a smile so he presses them down into a thin line. He knows it isn’t very effective but it’s better to try than to not try at all. Leaves a better impression.</p><p class="p1">He knows good and well who’s place it is to talk about these things but, he’s not entirely sold on the idea of bringing this up with Geralt. There’s some clear bad blood here. Jaskier’s only just met Geralt but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to put just anybody’s head on a stake and display it on a platform to be gawked at. Not to mention the fact that even if he did want to ask him about it, Geralt’s probably going to be avoiding him for the rest of his time here. Maybe he can talk to Ciri about it when she shows up. Wait, no. That’s a shit idea. This conversation hasn’t really done much to answer his questions, just drummed up way more.</p><p class="p1">Triss gets back to puttering around with her fancy majicks and Jaskier gets back to reading the journals. Well, just the one really.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">It’s late. It’s been three days since he’s seen Jaskier last, four since he’s heard him playing in the dining hall, and he misses him. He misses the sound of his voice and the demanding pull of his hands and the sound of that ‘<em>please</em>’.</p><p class="p1">Yen snaps her fingers in front of his face and it makes him scowl at her instantly, loathe to admit that he’d been distracted. She smiles at him mockingly, one eyebrow raised. The only thing he’s really missed are the polite goodbyes as the meeting winds down to an end for the day. Thank fuck.</p><p class="p1">“Ya comin’ big boy, or are you just going to stay there all night lost in your thoughts?” Geralt rolls his eyes and stands, ignoring the looks being thrown his way from the other Kings and sorcerers in the room. The cavalier attitude that Yen insists on displaying at every chance makes them uncomfortable but Geralt understands why she does it. In his court those who have proven their fealty will be treated with equal respect, regardless of their positions, and Yen revels in displaying it, almost taunting them with it. He nods to Yen and follows behind her as they exit the meeting room.</p><p class="p1">They maintain their usual silence until they walk through the portal. She’s probably explained to him why it’s possible for her to portal directly into her rooms, and why it’s safe to do so, about a hundred times by now but it involves a lot of technical knowledge about majicks that he has no interest in retaining. Yen says it’s safe so it’s safe. It’s a life lesson he’s learned well over the years, and when it comes to the majicks he prefers to stay out of it. Djinns and dragons and fucking fae have all taught him that it’s not a world he wants any part in.</p><p class="p1">When they walk into her room there’s already a kettle ready for her along with a small tray with honey and glasses. These meetings tend to rile Yen up just as much as they rile Geralt up so Triss has made a habit of leaving something out for them. It’s incredible sweet and he’s thankful for it, now more so than ever. His mind won’t let Jaskier go, his thoughts constantly drifting over to where he is, if he’s eating, how he’s sleeping, if he thinks about their kiss as much as he does. He can see Yen shaking her head in the corner of his eye as she sets to pouring out two glasses of the cold tea. She stirs in a glob of honey the tea, slowly building up steam with each circuit, and he can’t even smell the familiar metallic tang of majick as she does it because it’s such a small trick.</p><p class="p1">“Everyone else in the Keep has decided to trust him, Geralt. What’s got you hesitating?” Geralt frowns. Yen seems to be able to trace his thoughts just as easily as if she’d had a map of them and it can still be a little disconcerting. She hands him the glass and he accepts it when a small nod of thanks. It’s not lavender, thank you Triss, and it’s strong when he samples it. The warmth is comforting and it gives his hands something to hold onto during this conversation. It seems that Jaskier has managed to capture the hearts of everyone in this Keep and if he had a single reason to doubt Jaskier he’d be worried for it. Not once has he done anything that even looks suspicious. It almost makes him feel more anxious.</p><p class="p1">It’s insane, a bard strolling into the Keep just to collect a few songs and getting ensorcelled like this. It’s not something that happens. It feels like a nightmare.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri.” Yen scoffs as she stirs her own tea to her preferred heat slowly.</p><p class="p1">“You can fuck him without telling him about Ciri, Geralt.” She says with a laugh in her voice. Geralt stares at the kettle without really seeing it, just unable to meet Yen’s eyes for now. She’s right, it doesn’t have to be so complicated. He can just enjoy what he’s being offered, but. When the curse is broken, will Jaskier hate him? Will he ever return without the curse binding him here?</p><p class="p1">Fuck.</p><p class="p1">“I suppose you’re not wrong.” That’s enough to give Yen pause. He can see her staring at him curiously, quietly, for a long moment. He maintains his focus on the kettle and slowly drains his tea, mind slowly spinning, chasing familiar circles round and round.</p><p class="p1">The boots are still sitting by his door. He’d like to gift them to Jaskier. It’d be a good excuse to see him again. He wonders if Jaskier would want to see him, or what conversations Eskel seems to think he still needs to have with him, or if he’ll even be appreciate of the boots he’s found for him. He’s spent almost two weeks walking around the Keep barefoot and it hasn’t bothered him thus far, perhaps they wouldn’t be as appreciated as he’d thought.</p><p class="p1">“We should have a meeting tomorrow to discuss how the talks went. Come up with some-” Geralt pinches his nose and groans, setting his tea down gently.</p><p class="p1">“Not right now, Yen. I’ve spent all night talking.” He turns to leave amidst Yen’s soft chuckles and tosses a hand over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Yen.”</p><p class="p1">“Goodnight Geralt.” Yen says it in a sing song voice, mocking him once more. He makes his way back to his rooms, mind turning. He’s spent the past three days waffling back and forth between seeing Jaskier and not seeing Jaskier and he’s no closer to finding the right decision.</p><p class="p1">All he can know for certain is that he wants to see Jaskier again.</p><p class="p1">He finds himself at the door of this rooms far sooner than he’d expected, having made the walk on autopilot while his mind run over the same circles all over again. And again. When he opens the door he leans down to pick up the boots. He’s holding them in his hand, and he realizes that he’s holding them, and he isn’t certain at all when he’d made the decision to pick them up. He looks down at them like the sight of them in his hand is going to help at all but all it really does is solidify the fact that he’s holding them.</p><p class="p1">Decision made, it seems.</p><p class="p1">Geralt keeps his hold on the boots and walks over to the base of the stairs leading to Ciri’s rooms, checking in for her heartbeat once more. He pauses for a long moment, mind blank as he searches for the familiar sound and finding nothing. He’s in the Keep and by now the witchers who would have left have, so the rage pouring into his gut is not spurred on his fear this time. He thinks of the uncomfortable sensation he’d felt while sharing his lunch with Ciri yesterday. The insistent feeling that she was lying to him about something. His grip on the boots tightens as he turns on his heel and storms down the halls, suddenly dreadfully certain that he knows exactly where Ciri has gone.</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier looks up at the door as if he can magically see through it. He’s been in his rooms long enough that his dinner has already been delivered and devoured which is far too late for Ciri’s usual visits but, here we are.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier?” That’s the knock that they developed(her idea) and that’s her voice, so it must be Ciri. Jaskier has a moment where he stares at the door and considers just not opening it. “Jaskier, I know you’re awake. I heard the lute.” He smiles and shakes his head. Ciri will not be easily denied.</p><p class="p1">“Alright, one moment.” He sets his lute to the side and gets to picking the lock, a skill Ciri is still adamantly trying to get him to teach her. When he gets the door open she storms in, arms crossed, huffing and puffing and ready to blow his head off. He closes the door with a soft click and leans back against it, arms crossed, and waits her out. They have a little staring contest, her eyes little more than thin slits she’s glaring through, her whole body pulled tight with her barely contained rage. Jaskier doesn’t smirk, but he wants to because it’s cute.</p><p class="p1">“Where the fuck have you been?” Jaskier’s honestly surprised by the confidence with which she says the curse. He hasn’t heard her say anything like that before, she really must be mad. Jaskier’s eyebrows jump up but he smiles because he’s really unsure why she’s so angry.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve been here, little cub. Where have you been?” She doesn’t respond well to his levity, just turns on her heel and plops herself on the couch and even that makes her look like she’s radiating rage. Jaskier stays where he is and waits. She clearly needs a moment to gather herself. Slowly she slides down in her seat, feet pushed up against the table, and her rage seems to dim down into her usual petulance.</p><p class="p1">“You haven’t been playing during lunch lately.” Jaskier frowns in confusion. He’d never seen her in the dining hall when he played, she’d never mentioned that she’d heard him before. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? She’d knocked on his door to thank him for his music and he’d never questioned it. Did he really think she was just wandering the halls and listened to him at his door? It hadn’t occurred to him that someone would miss his music. He’s just been having fun, trying out some original compositions, enjoying the attention. Still, looking at her, the tense set of her shoulders, the furrow in her eyebrows, and the way she’s grinding her teeth. She won’t look at him, just staring at the fire.</p><p class="p1">Whatever’s going on with her, it’s not just the fact that he hasn’t played in the past few days.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Jaskier pushes off the door and perches himself on the arm of the couch and picks up his lute. He’s not at all certain of what to do, but she’s so tense that he doesn’t want to push her. He picks a little rhythmic tune and watches her closely, waiting for her petulance melt into something a little easier to talk to. It takes a while and when she lets out a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes he slips down to sit next to her on the couch and starts to gently hum along with the tune. She’s been here like this before, bothered and quiet and angry about something, she has a lot to be angry about, so he waits.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t have to be proper here, but she’s not afforded the same freedom. Everyone here knows who she is, what she’s gone through, and they know it in a personal way that he doesn’t. He doesn’t know her, so she can be whatever she wants to be, act however she wants to act, and he won’t find her lacking, or be disappointed, or wonder if she’s okay with some pitiful tilt to his eyebrows, because he doesn’t know her. She’s safe here and he wants her to know that so he waits. He’s already waited one whole night before, picking at the strings of his lute, humming one song or another, and letting her silently stare at the fire, tense and angry and quiet. She can be as quiet and as angry as she wants, he’ll still be here, setting her life to music, and waiting.</p><p class="p1">When he hears sniffling he puts his lute on the table and turns to face her fully. She’s furiously scrubbing at her face trying to clear the tears before they’ve even had a chance to fall. “Oh, cub. What’s going on?”</p><p class="p1">“You’re not going to be here for much longer, are you?” Her voice terrifies him. It’s thick with unshed tears, quiet, and has a tremor to it. Jaskier flounders for a minute, surprised by her question, confused by her tears, and terrified that he’s done something to hurt her. He didn’t expect this.</p><p class="p1">“Well, I.” Jaskier slumps back into the couch and lets out a heavy sigh. This is some heavy shit he’s being asked to handle from someone so small. He did not expect this. “No, I don’t.” They both sit there for a moment, just watching the fire together.</p><p class="p1">“I miss it sometimes. The dances, the music, the pretty dresses, and all the glittering jewels.” Ciri’s still whispering, like what she’s admitting to is some horrible secret which he can’t possibly understand. He situates himself to face her, leaned back against the arm of the couch and waits for her to continue. “It’s not like I’m unhappy or anything, I just.” She lets out a shaking breath and rubs at her eyes again. “I just miss it.” Sweet Melitele, Jaskier doesn’t know what to do at all. He’s sat next to a crying child, one who’s lost more than he ever has. What has he lost? He has no idea what she needs, what she’s looking for, or how to provide it. She huffs out a shaky laugh, one that Jaskier knows from experience is dripping with self hatred. His heart hurts for her.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, cub. No one would accuse you of being ungrateful for missing what you’ve lost.” She turns to look at him then, eyes wide and glassy, and she looks so very small. She is by no means weak, but he wants to protect her all the same.</p><p class="p1">“You think so?” Jaskier smiles, he hopes it doesn’t look pitiful the way everyone else looks at her, and nods. He can see the relief flood through her body, so strong he can feel it, too.</p><p class="p1">“It’s natural, darling.” Ciri smiles some, just a small one, and she’s so young it’s not fair for one so young to have to feel so much.</p><p class="p1">“I could teach you a new dance? One that’s become popular in the past two years, really sweeping the courts by storm.” Jaskier’s floundering and grasping at straws but it seems to work. She breaks out in a wide smile and nods. Jaskier runs with it, hopping onto his feet and holding his hand out to her. Her eyes are still glistening with tears, and her cheeks are ruddy, but she’s smiling and following his footsteps with a bounce in her step. It’s a blessing to chase away her tears. He never wants to see her cry again. If that means he needs to fill her every second with music and dance then he’s more than happy to do it.</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">That morning when Jaskier picks the lock he finds a pair of boots next to his door. They’re clean, and sturdy, and fit perfectly. He wears them proudly, someone went through the effort of finding him boots, and cleaning them, and they didn’t even leave him a note or anything. The least he can do is show his appreciation for the thought and the effort. They make a satisfying click sound with each step that he quite likes.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This features my favorite trope of all time so I really hope I did it justice. When I sat down to edit this chapter this morning it was only roughly 9k and somehow it grew into another 13k chapter. Idk how I keep writing such long chapters, but here we are guys. Here. We. Are. <br/>Okay, also I'm going to be missing next week's update. We're really starting to get to the end guys, we're so close, and I need the extra time to make sure I Get It Right. <br/>Please, please, please, send me extra love and leave extra kudos to help me through it and also please let me know how you like this chapter. I really hope you guys like it because I've been holding onto this since the beginning! &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When Jaskier gets to the dining hall he can almost see the nervous tension in the air. His new boots make the same satisfying click as he walks, but it feels different today. He almost feels like one of those annoying paraders who straps a drum to his back and ties ropes to his feet and carries symbols in his hands and makes the most tone deaf noises with each step he takes, and he can feel eyes on his from every direction. He twirls on his heel, plate in hand, still confident in his steps, to survey the room and, yes. It’s true this time.</p><p class="p1">Everyone in the Keep <em>is</em> looking at him.</p><p class="p1">Some outright stare, others only glance up before turning back to their own groups, but it’s still an unprecedented amount of attention. There aren’t nearly as many witchers as there were when he’d first arrived at the Keep, most of the people here are trainees and they’re the worst offenders. The older kids know better than to gawk but they’re all still whispering rather loudly. The conversations quiet down as he passes by and then pick back up as he continues by. It’s strange. He feels like a prize chicken being gawked at.</p><p class="p1">“What’s going on?” Jaskier asks the table as he sits down, still looking around the room with confusion. It’s quiet, and tense, and when he looks around to the people before him he realizes they’re all staring at him, too. Coën won’t meet his gaze, pushing the food around on his plate. Lambert’s hands balled into fists glaring at him unabashedly. Eskel’s the only one who’s still eating, regarding him with a cool, unreadable expression. “I feel like I’m in trouble but I can’t possibly fathom why.” Lambert’s fist slams on the table, not enough to jostle the dishes but more than enough to make Jaskier’s shoulders jump.</p><p class="p1">“Care to tell us what you did?” Jaskier just stares at Lambert, trying to figure out just what the bloody fuck he’s talking about. He’s smiling, but it’s a cruel smile, angry. Jaskier’s never seen him look so upset before, he’s baffled. He looks around the room once more, trying to grasp for an answer to the heavy tension in the air. He’s still being watched. He realizes that most of the people in the room will be listening to everything he’s about to say and it makes him loose his appetite completely, stomach churning and suddenly ice cold.</p><p class="p1">“Lambert?” Jaskier turns to look back at his friend and he unthinkingly covers Lambert’s fist with his own hand. The touch seems to soften some of his anger, his eyes betraying the uncertainty, the hurt fueling his anger. What in Melitele’s sweet name is going on? But before he has a chance to ask Lambert throws his hand off and pushes himself away from the table, walking away, scrubbing his hand over the back of his head. He’s clearly agitated, clearly upset, and Jaskier turns to face the others, feeling even more at a loss than before. Coën at least doesn’t seem mad so he tries him next, reaching his hand out across the table to request the same simply touch that sent Lambert running. “Coën?”</p><p class="p1">“Ah, I uh,” Coën sighs, puts down his fork, and looks to Eskel. Eskel tilts his head, a silent command to leave them, and Coën glances up at Jaskier. “Sorry bird.” He stands to leave, collecting his meal, and walks off slowly, leaving Jaskier alone. He takes a moment to collect himself before he turns his attention to Eskel. Fear starts to prickle in the back of his mind, starts to twist his stomach into anxious knots.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel, please.” Eskel nods, suddenly looking more tired than he does anything else, still eating. Jaskier’s mind starts to flicker with all kinds of half formed anxieties about what could have happened, each growing more and more outlandish than the last, playing on all his old fears. He’s been caught for that one semester he spent being trained as a spy at Oxenfurt Academy, or his parents have somehow caught wind of where he is, or Dimmy ran home to her own parents exhausted and tired of her hard peasant living, or Geralt’s finally decided enough is enough and he’s had to put up with Jaskier for far too long now, or maybe everyone has simply just decided they don’t fucking like him anymore.</p><p class="p1">“It seems to be the opinion of most people here that you might be the reason why Geralt isn’t here today.” Jaskier stares at Eskel, shell shocked. Of all the images filtering through his mind, Geralt ending up missing wasn’t exactly something that had seemed even remotely possible. Jaskier looks around the room once more, certain that Geralt will be hidden among the crowds at the tables despite never having once seen him in the dining hall for breakfast.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt isn’t here?” Eskel shrugs, taking another bite and somehow looking intimidating while he does it. Jaskier takes a long swig of his water, throat suddenly bone dry, and it helps to settle him some. His boots make a loud click with every nervous bounce and he knows it must be more than grating to the witchers in the hall but he can’t quite stop himself.</p><p class="p1">Geralt is missing. Jaskier saw Ciri the night before last. Surely the two incidents aren’t related? Fuck, he really hopes the two incidents aren’t related. He’d been serious when he warned Ciri she’d get him beheaded but surely they wouldn’t do it now? He’s more than proved himself by now. Hasn’t he? “Why would they think I’d have anything to do with Geralt running off?”</p><p class="p1">“Sure smell scared, don’t you?” Jaskier turns to look at another witcher sitting a little further down the bench, shocked. He thinks his name may be Leo, or Theo, something along those lines, a hulking man covered in more scars then he’s seen on any one witcher before. Something about him radiated chaotic rage and he’s always been careful to keep his distance from him up until now. He keeps his mouth shut and turns back to Eskel, tense and uncomfortable, cheeks burning. Leo-Theo is right after all, he is scared. He’d never imagined Lambert would look at him like that.</p><p class="p1">“Come on, let’s take a walk.” Jaskier nods and falls into step, sure to keep his chin up. His mind is still racing, supplying him with every single possible scenario that could have led hm here. They walk in silence, leaving the dining hall, slipping into the less populated hallways, Eskel’s shoulder bumping into him from time to time. Jaskier thinks he might be doing to try and help relax him but it only serves to make him more desperate to understand what nightmare he’s found himself in exactly. It’s a familiar gesture, from when they were friends, and judging by the look on Lambert’s face when he’d left him none of them are his friends right now. He doesn’t exactly have it in him to blame Lambert, he’s known Geralt far longer, and he does know now that they’ve been infiltrated before. Someone else got close to Geralt, hurt him more than they’d ever thought possible, it makes sense that someone as emotionally turbulent as Lambert would revert to something akin to a terrified kitten lashing out to claw and bite at any hand reaching out. Jaskier looks down at his hand and wonders if he should be thankful that he doesn’t have any broken digits.</p><p class="p1">“When Geralt first started us on this path,” Jaskier turns to watch Eskel as he speaks, not bothering to watch where he’s going. He knows by now that people will avoid him when his attention is elsewhere and Eskel will take a gentle hold of his elbow to pull him out of harms way should he need it. He can still trust that Eskel won’t let him walk right into a wall. Eskel doesn’t look at him though, just keeps walking, staring straight ahead, expression still unreadable, still cool an unfamiliar. It occurs to Jaskier that this might be how other humans see him, the cool headed, emotionless witcher. Broad shouldered, taking wide, confident strides, walking with confidence and power. Cold and expressionless. It sends a shiver down his spine. He’d never known before just how much trust and acceptance he was offered when he’d arrived.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt ran away pretty often. We all did, really. Trying to handle having lands, and people, and dealing with politics and expectations we’ve never had to live up to before was overwhelming. I took over because I needed to, because I was better at it. People feared me, thought I was terrifying to look at, but they were still just as easy to charm as ever.” He catches a hint of a smirk on Eskel’s face, only around the eyes because he’s ensured that he can only see the side of his face that’s scarred. “Geralt’s never been good with people.”</p><p class="p1">There’s another long moment of silence as they pass by a few people in the halls. Jaskier has no doubt they’re listening, the gossiping is one of the handful of pleasurable pastimes in the Keep. Is occurs to him then that they’re walking in the direction of his rooms. It’s not exactly surprising, but it dawns on him that he might really be a prisoner now. At least until Geralt returns and makes a decision about what they’ll do with him. They have several sorceresses and mages in the Keep, some who come and go, others who stay full time like Yennefer and Triss, they’ll probably get involved soon. Jaskier starts twirling the rings on his fingers, using a thumb to run down the inside of his palm, counting them to ensure he’s got them all while his mind jumps around. He feels scattered, more confused now then he’s ever been before.</p><p class="p1">They’ll want to root around in his mind. It’s been a long time since he’s had anyone sink their hands into his head, he’s going to have to dedicate some time to preparing himself for that.</p><p class="p1">“A few nights on the hard earth, under the stars, it’s like a balm to a sore.” Eskel stops outside of his door, staring at it for a moment. Jaskier stands next to him, anxious as hell and just waiting. He takes in a deep breath, frowning, and tries to connect the dots.</p><p class="p1">“What exactly are you telling me, Eskel?” Jaskier turns to face him a little more directly, and Eskel does the same, crossing his arms and staring at his boots. Jaskier can’t for the life of him infer anything from Eskel’s expression. Usually he’s the most open to read, the most expressive, even more so than Coen who’s so honest that Jaskier spent an entire day asking him more and more outrageous questions just to see what he’d say. His heart’s breaking, his best friend won’t look at him. He jumps a little when he feels Eskel gently kick the side of his foot and then his eyes finally meet his.</p><p class="p1">“How are the new boots?” Jaskier can see his friend in those eyes. He looks just as sad as Jaskier feels and he shakes his head, trying to play catch up. They’re talking about shoes now? Isn’t Geralt missing?</p><p class="p1">“They’re perfect.” Jaskier means it, they genuinely are perfect, but it comes out rude and sarcastic. Geralt’s missing, run off, and Eskel’s asking him about his shoes? “Why?” He’s loosing his patience, confused and agitated, and it’s bleeding into his tone.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt wasn’t here yesterday. He didn’t show up for the peace talks and he’s missed two morning trainings now. Anything happen when Geralt give them to you that would have him running off?” Of course. Fucking of course. Jaskier huffs, shifting his weight, one hand on his hip the other rubbing at his temple. He’d had Ciri in his room that night when the boots were placed by his door. Geralt heard him with Ciri. How much had he heard? He still wasn’t entirely sure about the exact nature of his relationship with the little cub, but surely it was a kind and loving one if she so happily calls him Uncle. She never spoke about him and he never really asked. Didn’t seem appropriate to beg for information from his niece, she’d probably get more than enough of that soon from every court on the Continent. </p><p class="p1">Geralt already knows, and the second he gets back everyone else will, too. He may as well admit to it. Will Ciri get in any trouble? It hadn’t occurred to him before that she may have been just as forbidden from seeing him as he was barred from leaving his rooms after dusk to prevent from discovering her. they’re both in deep shit right now. Jaskier throws his hands in the air. Nothing he can do about it now. He can only hope that he’s proven himself trustworthy enough that they’ll believe him when he says he’d rather be hanged then tell anyone about Ciri. She deserves a chance at peace, hidden away from the politics that would rob her of her life and happiness. The chance that she only has here, in the Keep, surrounded by witchers.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve been giving Ciri music lessons.” He looks over to Eskel, meeting his patient gaze. Eskel’s reaction is slow, like the true weight of his sentence needs time to settle in before he can believe it. Probably scenting him for a lie, listening to his heartbeat to see if it skips. “I got the boots the same night she’d snuck in. I was teaching her a new court dance.” Jaskier has to chuckle to himself. Of all the things he’s done in his life that could have him beheaded, giving private -<em>and free!</em>- music lessons to a princess wasn’t even on the list.</p><p class="p1">Eskel looks like he can’t decide if he wants to be angry, shocked, or bewildered. It’s admittedly amusing watching his struggle play out on his face, but that might just be Jaskier becoming hysteric. After every disastrous, and wonderful, interaction he’s had with Geralt he’s completely at a loss for how Geralt will react.</p><p class="p1">“Well. That would certainly do it.” Eskel pushes his hair out of his face, seemingly choosing to settle on bewilderment as his reaction. Jaskier’s back to being nervous, watching him closely, burning with the need to know what will happen to him now. Eskel shakes his head and opens Jaskier’s door, gestures inside. “I’m sorry little stow away, but. Until Geralt gets back.” He does look sorry. Jaskier nods, miserable, and walks into his rooms.</p><p class="p1">At this point he has no idea what Geralt must think of him. </p><p class="p1">The door swings shut, clicking quietly. When he hears the turn of the locks he looks back and sees that there’s no lock or doorknob on his side of the door anymore. All he can see is a plain wooden door, smooth and impenetrable.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt comes to slowly.</p><p class="p1">The first thing he’s aware of his the sunlight. Dappled, gentle, warm on his skin, and making his eyelids burn a bright red. It takes him a long time to understand he’s awake. Without opening his eyes he takes stock of what he can with his other senses. His body feels heavy, sore. His legs especially, though his arms some, too. He’s lying on his back. He’s not in his bed, but the hardness he feels isn’t the familiar cool stone of the Keep. Outside. He takes an inquisitive sniff and confirms it. Outside. In the woods. There’s dried blood in the air. Birds still chirp. He doesn’t feel any wounds on his own skin so he doesn’t worry about that for now.</p><p class="p1">He head thumps in pain, sharp and loud, and he groans, finally stirring some. Moving around makes him aware of just how uncomfortable he is on the forest floor, not even on a bedroll, and how sore he is. He tries to remember what happened that led him here, only to realize that he doesn’t remember much at all. It’s mostly emotions he can recall, panic, anger, a need to feel the dirt on his skin, his hands, sinking inbetween his toes. The fierce, base desire to give chase, to hunt, to regress.</p><p class="p1">He’d gone feral.</p><p class="p1">His head pounds once more and he realizes he’s thirsty. He tries to wet his mouth, moving his dried tongue around, sucking at his teeth, and he can taste blood. Not his, his tongue or cheeks aren’t sore. He must’ve found something then. To hunt.</p><p class="p1">He blinks his eyes open and the intensity of the dawn light stings, immediately making him growl. His hand flies up to protect his eyes as he blinks a few more times, trying to force himself to adjust. His head pounds, rhythmically now, in time with his heartbeat. Why the fuck is he here? And how long has he been here?</p><p class="p1">He sits up slowly, his back aching. He rolls his shoulders to ease the pain, arching his back and taking in a sharp breath. He’s gone soft. How long has it been since he’s slept on the hard ground in the middle of nowhere covered in blood and sweat? Never. He’d always carried a bedroll, even when he went searching for Ciri after Cintra….</p><p class="p1">Oh fuck. Ciri.</p><p class="p1">Geralt pulls up his legs to rest his elbows on his knees and hangs his head. He’d heard her anger, her tears, her pain. She’s lonely. Even now, with everyone here, surrounded by her family. What’s left of it. And Jaskier. Julian. A noble, like her. He can feel the anxiety, the anguish, the panic bubbling back up at the thought of the two of them. He tries to slow his breathing, return it to it’s regular pattern, head still throbbing. He turns his attention to his body, starting at his feet and climbing up, section by section, relaxing his muscle and forcing himself to release his tension. </p><p class="p1">He realizes he’s nauseated. He can hear the heartbeats of the birds, and the far away deer, and the squirrels, and every other creature within his greatly increased earshot. Even for a witcher. The sound of their lungs expanding, their mouths chewing, their skittish strides and flittering wings, the scent of their hides and their warmth, it all makes his stomach roll, his head pound. It sounds as close to his ear as if they were all pressed close to his body, loud and impossible to drown out. The warmth from the meagre sunlight feels like a physical weight on his skin. The sweetened spring breeze smells so strongly of flowers and dirt and shit and life that it makes his vision swim with nausea. It touches his skin with all the gentleness of a wyvern’s claws.</p><p class="p1">Sensory overload. Sensory hangover. Whichever it is, his every sense is heightened to an unbearable degree, nightmarish. He’s filthy and uncomfortable but he’s been so before, may one day be so again. Nothing that’s going to kill him so he slowly moves himself into the right position for meditation. The only available cure for him right now is to leave his body behind, wait for his body to relax, try to rebuild his control, force the wolf back into his cage.</p><p class="p1">He settles into his position, hands on his knees, bent at the elbows. Feet tucked under his rear, knees and shins bearing the weight of him. Shoulders relaxed. Chin up. He takes in a long breath and tries to focus on the way his chest moves, his lungs fill, his heart beats. He holds it for a beat and lets it out, slow and with purpose.</p><p class="p1">A campfire. The flames dancing, reaching up higher. He focuses on the heat from the fire on his skin, the scent of the smoke. Pine. Whenever he can he snaps a few sprigs from pine trees and tosses it into the flames. It makes the smoke smell sweet. A simple pleasure, but one all the same. The more he focuses on the flame the further away he gets from the sunlight burning his eyelids, the breeze biting at his skin, the pounding in his head from the sound of the forest around him.</p><p class="p1">He sinks in deeper and deeper, leaving his body behind.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier figures he may as well make himself comfortable. He’ll most likely be here a long time. He perches on the back of the couch and pulls off his boots, carefully placing them by the door. A gift from Geralt. If Ciri hadn’t been there that night would he have knocked on his door? Come inside and spoken to him softly, opened up to him, kissed him? Jaskier covers his eyes with one hand, the other on his hip, and uses his thumb and index finger to squeeze at his temples. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s trembling.</p><p class="p1">No point in lingering on fantasies. No point in wallowing in this love. What will happen to him? What place can there be for him in the Keep now? The way they all looked at him. He’d never felt more unwelcome in the Keep then he has today. He’s lost something, a hiding place. He’d build a fort once, in the back of his closet, the softest blankets and the fluffiest pillows, and whenever he’d needed an hour or two to run away from propriety, expectations, or just the endless cold stare of his father’s endless disappointment, he’d bury himself under those pillows. Books, a few stuffed animals, and his endless imagination were all he needed in there, curled into the safety of all the soft things. He’d felt that here, among witchers, in their mountainside Keep. He hadn’t realized it until it wasn’t that anymore, of course, and he’d probably never be allowed to feel it again.</p><p class="p1">He takes in a deep breath, shoving away those memories, and unbuttons his doublet. Tosses it over the couch, unlaces his chemise, rolls up the sleeves. He sets about making tea, because there’s not much else to do now and tea will help to settle his stomach. He hadn’t eaten and he’s not hungry, but picking and chewing would have been a nice way to pas the time. He wonders if Eskel will send him something to eat soon or if he’ll have to wait until lunch rolls around. He hadn’t sent him lunch when he’d spent those two days wallowing in his room, writing silly love songs, so maybe he won’t think to this time either.</p><p class="p1">He sits in front of the fire and watches the flames crackle away. When he sits back and lifts an arm to rest on the surface of the coffee table he ends up hitting something. He turns to see what it is, curious, and there’s the stack of witcher’s journals Triss had given him. Well, if he ends up keeping his head then he’ll not be allowed to stay in the Keep much longer. He should read these while he has the chance, and what else can he do other than wallow in self pity?</p><p class="p1">He shuffles through them to find Geralt’s journal, no point in pretending like he’s interested in reading any other journal right now. It’s probably his last chance to learn about his husband. He flips it open directly to the section marked for him, the entry about Geralt’s one interaction with the fae. A pressed string of dandelions slips from the page when he opens it to that section, had it been there before? He doesn’t remember opening it to this section, when he’d gotten to Geralt’s journal he was just flipping around the journals randomly. The dandelions are squashed from the pressure from the journal but they’re not rotten, or wilted, or even that beautiful brown color that pressed flowers tend to adopt. It’s strange, they look like they’d just been tucked into the pages that morning. Jaskier picks them up, three dandelions tied into a simple chain, and sets it down onto the table gently. They still smell fragrant. He touches the flower with the tips of his fingers, feeling the velvety softness of the petals, curious. He hadn’t done it, he hasn’t stepped foot outside of the Keep since he’s arrived. Perhaps someone snuck into his rooms and did it? But why tuck it into Geralt’s journal? It’s weird but the dandelions won’t be telling him the answers to his questions anytime soon so he turns back to the journal.</p><p class="p1">Geralt doesn’t include months or dates in his entries. Just the seasons and the year. Spring, 1142. Kerack. Jaskier runs his fingers over the name of his homeland, tracing the shape of his script. Geralt was in his hometown a hundred and three years before he was born. Huh.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">+++</p><p class="p1">Geralt keeps his pace steady, leaned forward with one hand resting on Roach’s neck to try and keep her settled. He’s been traveling through this forest for three hours now and the direction of the sunlight hasn’t changed in all that time. By now it should be dusk but the sunlight filtered through the trees is still coming from directly above, midday. He keeps his eyes on the trail and ignores the shadows flitting in his peripheral vision. He can hear their laughter and their soft whispers trying to cajole him into joining their dances, but he’s not so easily caught. Roach’s ears twitch and shift around with each sweet voice but he doesn’t spur her to anything faster than their lazy trot, actively tries to soothe her so she doesn’t spook, either. He’s fairly certain that changing pace will only spur the fae surrounding them to give chase and he’s heard enough stories to know that he doesn’t want to get entangled in their tricks and their games.</p><p class="p1">He should have known better than to enter the forests throughout Kerack. Their proximity to Brokolin led to many stories of the fae, of ‘eerie’ wives who were found wandering the fields, or wading in the rivers. This particular forest was thin, walking around it would have added a full two days to his travels, and he’d heard no such warnings about this trail when he was still in town.</p><p class="p1">He’s seen the figure of a woman in pale blue silk, a thin shift closer to a nightgown than an actual dress meant for company, weaving throughout the trees on either side of him for the past hour now. She gets closer and closer the farther he travels. Any other human would be enticed by her appearance, would give chase, spurred on by their curiosity and her beauty. When she slides out of the trees and begins walking alongside them Geralt doesn’t look away from the trail. Roach, thankfully, doesn’t spook. He can feel the weight of her gaze on him but still he’s silent. They walk side by side for another hour in silence before she finally speaks. The sunlight still has not changed.</p><p class="p1">“What do you seek, Witcher?” Her voice is soft, but it holds power. The scent of wildflowers becomes thick in the air and the voices of the fae surrounding them becomes louder.</p><p class="p1">“Safe passage through this forest.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re traveling a long road. No settlements in any direction for a week. On the side of the path, you see a fox, caught in a rusted trap. Upon closer inspection you see that the fox has gnawed through his hind leg so that the bone is visible.” The shadows at the edges of his vision threaten to steal his sight from him but still Geralt does not look away from the trail. Her voice is melodic, so strong that he can taste the fox’s blood in the air, smell the rust on the steel trap, and hear the poor creature’s pitiful whining. “What do you do, Witcher?” A riddle then, but this one has no preset answer. It is known that the fae have valued the life and protection of their forests and the creatures that live in them more than the humans’ who have stumbled into their domain.</p><p class="p1">“I kill it.” The fae woman laughs, almost painfully loud, and the singing of the fae surrounding him becomes a cacophonous screaming.</p><p class="p1">“You would kill the poor creature, Witcher? Why?”</p><p class="p1">“If the fox does manage to snap it’s bone and escape it would die slowly of infection, and if it doesn’t it will die of starvation. Killing it quickly is the most merciful end.” In an instant the the shadows bleed away from his vision and the calling from the fae dies down into an eerie silence. Even the birds have stopped singing.</p><p class="p1">“Do you cry for the poor creature?”</p><p class="p1">“A witcher cannot cry.”</p><p class="p1">“Tell me, Witcher, can you love?” Geralt is tempted then, to turn to look at her. He tilts his head to the side, frowning, and looks at her in his periphery. Her eyes are the same pale, cornflower blue as her silk shift. This isn’t a riddle. Whatever decision she’d needed his answer to make has already been made, this she asks of him because of her curiosity. He wants to spur Roach along, to find if he’ll be allowed to escape this forest or not, but he’s curious as well. He’s been asked this question before and each time he’s said no, but his lips snap shut when he moves to provide his usual answer.</p><p class="p1">He feels the familiar weight of Roach underneath him, the way her gait jostles him from side to side, the strength and certainty of her legs beneath him, carrying him. His brother, Eskel, and the nights they spent curled around one another as children, desperate for warmth, for comfort, for another body pressed into their own. Lambert and his bitchiness, how entertaining it was to watch him mouth off during training. It’d been a long time since they’d seen a witcher with so much life, so much passion and anger, curled tight and snapping at anyone who dared get close. The nights he’d spent gaining his favor, calming him down.</p><p class="p1">Even the humans, different names and faces in different towns, but all the same. the look of uncertainty and terror in their eyes, the wave of relief when he brings them their monster’s head. The reason they both needed his kind and feared them. Geralt clears his throat, and nods. He does not want to lie to the fae woman, senses that not only would she know it to be a lie the second he utters it, but also that she’d asked so he may see it for himself.</p><p class="p1">“Yes. Though it is different, I think. Than how you would.” In the next blink of his eye he finds himself transported to the edge of the forest. Roach huffs, shaking her head, and it’s dark. The moon hangs low in the sky and in a few hours it will be dawn. Geralt can easily see that Roach’s mane has been braided and in one braid a chain of dandelions has been woven into it.</p><p class="p1">He spurs roach along. He doesn’t want to make camp anywhere near this forest just to be safe, and he’s lost a day already.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p4">+++</p><p class="p1">
  <em>‘Obtained a fairy’s favor while traveling through the wood. May prove useful one day.’</em>
</p><p class="p1">Jaskier rolls his eyes and turns the page. Of course those two short sentences would be the only thing Geralt would write in his journal, gods forbid he include any of the interesting details. Why would Triss include this journal, there was no information to be had from it at all. He turns the page and continues reading about his other experiences on the path, thankfully they seem to be more detailed, though not by much.</p><p class="p1">There are about ten pages throughout the journal dedicated to the scars he’s earned, carefully rendered. Now that Jaskier can dedicate some time to reading about them he realizes that the scars he chooses to record on the page are special to him for some reason. A gash at the neck related to a striga. A few cuts on his forearm related to a djinn. There aren’t many details, it’s certainly reads more like a poor outline rather an someone’s personal journal but Jaskier can make some safe inferences. Hard won battles, difficult decisions, scars that would heal and disappear, taking with it the memory that he’d see on his skin. If a witcher lived long enough, would his scars disappear entirely? Just how much energy does their mutated bodies dedicate to healing them? It seems that Jaskier’s curiosity will never be satisfied when it comes to witchers. They’re an endless well of fascination.</p><p class="p1">He jumps when there’s a knock on the door, surprised that someone would come to his rooms so soon. Although when he glances out the window he notices that it is nearly midday already. Quickly he slips the dandelion chain back into the journal and closes it. He was given these journals from Triss, he probably won’t get into trouble for having them, but he still feels embarrassed at the idea of getting caught reading Geralt’s journal. He stacks it under another one and stands up just in time for Lambert to open the door. He still looks angry.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon. Yen wants to see you.” Jaskier knew this would be coming but he still feels dread. He picks up his doublet on his way to the door and slips his arms into it, not bothering to pick up his shoes or to do much more than adjust his doublet so it sits properly across his shoulders. He leaves it unbuttoned and his chemise unlaced. Men still wander the Keep shirtless so he doesn’t bother worrying over the modesty he’s expected to be protecting in proper courts.</p><p class="p1">Lambert doesn’t touch him or speak to him the entire time he’s escorted to her office. Jaskier can feel the tension, the anger, rolling off of him in waves and it breaks his heart even more.</p><p class="p1">“It was never my intention to hurt Geralt. I know you’re worried for your friend.” He glances over to Lambert to see if he’s only made him angrier but he’s surprised to see that Lambert looks anxious. They continue in silence until the reach the first set of stairs. Lambert waits for him to start climbing them before he follows behind, keeping close enough that Jaskier worries he might step on his heel.</p><p class="p1">“I was the last of the wolves, you know.” Jaskier tries to look over his shoulder, shocked, but Lambert pushes on his shoulder and he stumbles up the next step. He climbs a few more stairs in silence to order his thoughts properly. He hadn’t known that, no one mentioned it in all the time he’d been here. It might explain the particular closeness that Lambert displays with Coen. They seem to gravitate to one another, speaking quietly.</p><p class="p1">“That must have been so lonely.”</p><p class="p1">“I wasn’t here when the siege happened. Wasn’t even born yet. I was the last group of witchers to be trained. The Keep was still falling apart, most sections of it were closed off. I hated being here, hated the idea of becoming a witcher. Geralt pulled me aside after a particularly shit day for me and showed me where all the witchers who’d died had been buried. Told me about loosing most of the men he’d grown up with, fought beside. They weren’t buried how you human bury your kind. It was a mass pyre, all the bones mixed together, tossed into a mass grave.” Lambert’s voice echos in the staircase, low and quiet. This is the quietest he’s ever heard Lambert, almost somber, and it’s strange. If Jaskier couldn’t feel his body almost touch him with each step then he’d be convinced that he was hearing the whispers of a ghost.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt told me it didn’t matter how much of a little shit I was. How much I bit and clawed and raged. If I made it out of the trails alive I’d have brothers who would fight and die by my side regardless if I wanted them or not. So, yeah, stow away.” Jaskier smiles at the new sarcastic tone his voice takes, suddenly sounding exactly like his old self. “I’m worried for my friend.” Jaskier goes to take the last step but he’s pulled back by an arm around his waist. He falls into Lambert’s body, surprised and grasping at the rail for support before he can figure out what’s happened.</p><p class="p1">Lambert presses his face into Jaskier’s neck, scenting him, pulling him in as close as possible against his chest. Jaskier’s heart speeds up, surprised by the sudden gentleness, shaking because he thought he’d never feel Lambert grab him like this again. He stays as still as possible, scared that Lambert will pull away the second Jaskier acknowledges this moment. “I really hope you’re not a fucking lying shit spy.” Lambert whispers it into his skin and Jaskier’s throat closes up. He takes a sharp breath and sniffs, desperately trying not to cry, and wraps a hand around the back of Lambert’s neck, squeezing it.</p><p class="p1">When they walk into Yennefer’s office the first thing he sees is Triss and Eskel are talking quietly over a map. She’s got a clear stone that’s been carved to a point on a string spinning around and around. They don’t acknowledge him when he walks in so he keeps his mouth shut. Yennefer’s perched on the corner of her desk, watching them, arms crossed. Triss holds the string directly above the map, centered, but the stone circles around the top left of the map as if being pulled by some invisible force. Each revolution it makes becomes tighter and tighter, focusing in on a specific section. Probably some type of location spell, then.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier stands still, a few feet away from the door, and Lambert leans against the wall next to the door, arms crossed. It’s tense, and quiet, and Jaskier begins to prepare himself for what’s coming. He should have started this process when he was in his rooms instead of reading Geralt’s journal but he’d honestly thought this wouldn’t happen so soon. They really don’t waste their time here.</p><p class="p1">Cool waters. Clouded sunshine. Salt water. Jaskier forms the environment in his mind, eyes closed so he can see it better, and waits for his mind to fall to silence. It’s usually difficult for him to calm his mind enough to sink into his mind the way he needs to for this but with Lambert’s scent still so strong in his nose he finds it easily. He opens his eyes when he hears the door open and close once more. Eskel has left without saying goodbye.</p><p class="p1">Yennefer stand up to walk around the desk and sit down while Triss takes her place perched on the corner, both facing him. Triss points at the chair Jaskier sat in the last time the three of them were gathered here, palm up and smiling.</p><p class="p1">“Come sit, little stow away.” He can see Yennefer roll her eyes at the little pet name but Jaskier relaxes a little when he hears it all the same.</p><p class="p1">“When did you first meet Ciri, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks without looking at him, riffling through the desk drawers in search of something. He almost hopes she’s about to bring out that vodka and pass around glasses, hangover be damned. It might be easier to do this with the burn in his throat and warmth in his belly.</p><p class="p1">“Second night I was here.” Yennefer straightens up with the very same vodka he’d hoped for, looking surprised. She looks over to Triss with a sarcastic air about her, ‘<em>do you believe this guy?</em>’, and she pours out two fingers in a single glass.</p><p class="p1">“She certainly wasted no time.” Triss says it laughingly, ignoring Yennefer’s scathing glare and pushes the glass over to him. “Drink this, it’ll help make it easier for what we’re about to do.” Triss smiles sweetly and Jaskier looks down at the liquid.</p><p class="p1">“You’re gonna root around in my brain, rifling through my secrets, yeah?” He takes the glass and shoot it back without hesitation. Yennefer and Triss share a glance but say nothing. Triss pours him out another shot. He could tell them that he’s received the same training for this that every other high enough ranking noble did to protect themselves from this but he doesn’t. They’ll find out soon enough and the vodka will help ease things along regardless. He’s not technically of a rank high enough that he should have gotten the training but his mother knew how to do it and she was always a bit of a worrier. The second shot burns twice as much, but when it settles he already feels much calmer. He straightens his back and puts his hands on the desk, palms up, and closes his eyes.</p><p class="p1">Cool waters, lapping at his waist. The sun gentle behind thin clouds. A summer wind carrying with it the gentle scent of wildflowers. The burn in his throat and the warmth in his belly helps him feel grounded. “Okay. I’m ready.” He breathes in slow, with purpose.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, well, if you’re ready.” Jaskier’s mouth twitches in the face of Yennefer’s sarcasm and tries to sink lower, under the water, down low. He can feel hands slipping into his palms, fingers gripping his wrists with strength. Slowly, he pulls Yennefer down with him, floating gently to the floor of the room he’d constructed with his mother during their training.</p><p class="p1">A circular room, lined with bookshelves, book after book lining the shelves. Some spaces are occupied by trinkets, items that carry the memory better than his own writing do. His mind, laid bare for her. It supposed to be lined with empty books, multiple strange items meant to capture the interest of the invader so they get sucked down the twisting hallways filled with innocuous information but he has nothing to hide from Yennefer. Showing her his memories will help him more than making this difficult for her.</p><p class="p1">“Well, well. It seems you kept many secrets, little one.” Jaskier smiles as he bends around the tangled knots of multicolored string connecting every single thing in this room. His emotions, color coded, strung about like a spider’s web, the only aspect of the room he has no control over.</p><p class="p1">“It’s rudimentary at best, but I think it’ll serve our purpose. My mother taught me well but I left home after only a year and never quite got back to the training.” There’s a table with a sofa on one side and two chairs on the other. Next to that is where the spiral staircase opens up, leading down to the more chaotic and difficult to contain sections of his mind. The primal behaviors, his subconscious, the storage container for the curse. “From what she’s told me she keeps it all on notecards. Very clean, efficient.” He shrugs and starts pulling out the journals he has detailing his memories and thoughts of Ciri of the box he’d set on the table for Yennefer to rifle through. “Boxes of journals and books always seemed to be the easiest method for me.”</p><p class="p1">His fingers start to tingle. It’s usually quite difficult for physical sensations to reach his consciousness when he’s sunken this deep, one of the reasons why nobles are taught to do this. Should one find themselves captured and tortured it’s an option for them to avoid spilling their precious little secrets. Probably just the feeling of Yennefer’s majicks thrumming against his skin. Nothing too worrisome just yet.</p><p class="p1">He looks up to see Yennefer struggling to weave her way through the web of string, pulling them this way and that, frustrated and glaring at him. It’s amusing but he knows she’ll see it as a defense mechanism indicating his guilt so he keeps his amusement as much to himself as he can. “Well, it’s admittedly a feat for a human with such little training. You could certainly find a better way to deal with all of these emotions, though.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, my mother was frustrated by them, too. Never could quite figure out how to handle them any differently.” Yen makes it to the table soon enough, wasting no time before she started opening them up and scanning them quickly. He can feel the ghost of her fingers over his mind, a strange penetrative sensation. He focuses on his breathing, on making space for her, on keeping his defenses down. The more he resists her presence the more painful her invasion will become. “I’m surprised I wasn’t subjected to this earlier if I’m honest.”</p><p class="p1">“Geralt doesn’t like it. He insists we only use it when necessary.” She glances up at him, her lavender eyes cold and sharp. “It can be quite uncomfortable, even for the well trained.” Jaskier takes it as a compliment because he isn’t sure how else she means it. Her presence in his mind certainly isn’t comfortable but he isn’t in any sort of pain so perhaps he’s better trained than he’d thought.</p><p class="p1">Yennefer makes quick work of the books dedicated for Ciri, tossing them back into the box one by one as she scans each page. She barely looks at them but Jaskier can see the way his memories are flicking through her own mind if he concentrates on it hard enough. He doesn’t. He looks down at his hands. The tingling sensation he’d experienced earlier has traveled up to his wrist now. He begins to stretch his hands, fanning out the fingers and curling them slowly into fists and back. It feels similar to when bloodflow returns to an area that’s fallen asleep.</p><p class="p1">“What’s this?” Yennefer holds a book up for Jaskier’s inspection.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, yes. I figured you’d like to see that. If you want I can show you to the bookshelf holding the remainder of my experiences at Oxenfurt Academy if you’d like to ensure that I’m not manipulating you with this.” It’s the journal describing his single semester experience in training for the Redanian Secret Service. Yennfer flicks through the pages quickly.</p><p class="p1">“Bring me the boxes, I don’t want to have to make my way through this nightmare of string.” Jaskier smirks and sets about doing as she asks. It’s easier for him to move through them anyway. He’d expected more questions about his time with Ciri but he supposes she did just riffle through his every thought and emotion so. Probably not much room for confusion there. He’s got the box of Oxenfurt memories in hand when his fingers start to heat up. Okay, now it’s starting to worry him.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, are your hands starting to feel weird?” He drops the box onto the table when the warmth becomes a full burn. Yennefer stills, looking around the room for a moment, unnaturally still.</p><p class="p1">“Something’s not right.” She speaks quickly, her voice commanding, and the sudden change in attitude makes the back of Jaskier’s head tingle with fear. He knows that the heat on his hands will only become more painful the less focused he is on maintaining the room so he tries very hard to ignore the fear and focus on his meditative breathing. “You said your mother taught you this?” Jaskier nods but Yennefer is busy forcing her way through the string to get to the bookshelves.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, she did.” The combination of his fingertips burning, the heat crawling up slowly to his palms, the tingling sensation slowly climbing up to his forearms, and her fingers running through his mind with significantly less care than she’d had earlier all make him loose his grip on his concentration. The constructed room around them begins to shake. It doesn’t hurt, he’s still too sunken to feel it, but he knows it’s happening and he knows that when he resurfaces he’ll have to feel all of it. That thought only makes his concentration slip even more, books falling from the shelves they’re shaking so hard. “Did your mother have majick, Jaskier?”</p><p class="p1">“Some, but nothing worthy of attention. Enough to help me do this at least.” He can feel Yennefer’s confusion trickle through the connection they’ve established and it’s such a shock that she’s allowed her defenses down enough to let any information seep through at all that he truly begins to panic.</p><p class="p1">“She shouldn’t be able to help you construct this if she didn’t have true majicks.” Yennefer says it mostly to herself as she pulls out the boxed collection of his journals about his mother.</p><p class="p1">“What is it exactly you’re looking for?” His annoyance with her brazen riffling through memories he’d had no intention of showing her spikes up, strong, and many of the books along the shelves disappear as his natural defenses begin to kick in. The burning sensation only gets harder to suppress the higher it climbs. The more focus he lends to his physical body the more acutely he’ll feel the pain and he desperately wants to sever this connection.</p><p class="p1">Cool waters. Wildflowers and sea salt.</p><p class="p1">He won’t be able to push Yennefer out of his mind and if she doesn’t leave on her own before he loses his concentration he’ll only be subjected to more pain so puts all of his effort into suppressing the pain.</p><p class="p1">Gentle sunlight. The sound of the water lapping.</p><p class="p1">Up until now her presence here has been little more than an odd sensation, the second he tries to force her out it will become actively painful. Not to mention the fact that he’ll be subjected to the full sensations of his body and he does not want to have to face that right now.</p><p class="p1">“Has this room always smelled of wildflowers, or is it connected to the curse?” He can feel Yennefer’s touch, pulling through his memories. Flashes of what she’s seeing flickers through his eyes, the way she glowed in the sunlight, the strange exhaustion that settled into her bones during the winters, the dandelion wine she’d make herself and always give him a sip of. It’s why he’d decided his bardic name would be Jaskier. Dandelion. The flashes of those memories, one after the other in quick succession, confuse him.</p><p class="p1">The bookshelves recede into the walls and pour begins to pour in through the cracks left behind. The pain in his hands begins to become impossible to ignore. A dull, throbbing ache. The web of strings begins to thicken, knotting together, bleeding into a sea of deep, searing, blood red. Jaskier speaks through clenched teeth. “Always has.”</p><p class="p1">“Show me the curse.” Yennefer’s voice is hard, commanding, and edged with fear. Her hands are glowing with a light that looks like fire. It’s in her veins, he realizes, tracing up to her elbows, almost illuminating her blood vessels from the inside of her arms. It’s terrifying and judging by the shake in her hands she’s experiencing some of the pain he is.</p><p class="p1">“What <em>the fuck’s</em> going on?” The water’s up to their ankles now.</p><p class="p1">“We haven’t got a lot of time, Jaskier.” She yells and he nods, pointing her to the spiral staircase. Jaskier falls into the couch because he’s standing right next to it and he can lean over the back of it to look down. He can hear Yennefer wading through the string and the water to lean over the railing.</p><p class="p1">Suspended in the center of the spiral is the container for it. The curse surges inside like bottled lightning. The thick glass caging it in is covered in shatter marks, like a hundred spider webs, the bright lavender light shining through them like a giant lamp.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, how are you doing this?” She almost sounds awed. Jaskier’s head begins to pound, his forearms are burning, and he can’t hold this together any longer. He grinds his teeth as the illusion finally crumbles and tries to bite back the shout building in his throat. He feels like he’s drowning in boiling water, pain shooting out everywhere, and he’s fairly certain he’s screaming. He can feel Yennefer’s hands still digging around in his mind like a wildfire, burning and radiating pain down his entire body. He can no longer see any of it, no longer keep track, eyes squeezed shut as he tries desperately to claw his way back to his body, gasping for air.</p><p class="p1">Finally, after what feels like a long, long time, Yennefer’s hands pull away and he sucks in a desperate gasp. He’s groaning through his teeth, doubled over in pain, arms curled up into his chest protectively. He’s trembling, weathering wave after wave of pain, breathing hard, desperate for clean air. Slowly he comes to, the pain slowly starting to ebb away, and he’s oddly thankful for a moment that he hasn’t eaten anything today.</p><p class="p1">A hand, meant to be reassuring, touches his back, and even that is so painful he howls.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t touch him, Triss!” He can barely hear Yennefer through his own pain. Her voice sounds ragged. The stabbing pain he’d felt shooting down his spine at Triss’s touch disappears quickly. He realizes he’s on the floor suddenly, sobbing into the wood, his whole body painfully tense. He’s aware enough now that he can force himself to take in deep breaths. His lungs are screaming for air but he denies them for five long seconds, then slowly pushes the breath out. Five seconds. Breath in. Five seconds. Breathe out. Slowly his pounding heart begins to slow and the exhaustion settles on him with all the subtlety of a bear falling ontop of him.</p><p class="p1">“What the fuck is he?” It’s the last thing he hears before he submits to unconsciousness. It almost makes him chuckle hysterically but he simply hasn’t got the energy for it.</p><p class="p1">He comes to slowly. He’s floating on cool waters for what feels like a long time, dead to the world. He’s first aware of the dull ache in his arms. He spends a moment focusing on the pain there because it helps bring him back, makes him realize he’s laying on the floor. The stone his cheek is resting on is cool to the touch. He’s drenched in sweat. His entire body is sore and he lets out a low moan, stirring slowly. It feels like his body is nothing more than one big bruise, aching and stiff. He’s really fucking thirsty.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier?” He thinks it might be Triss’s voice and when he hears it he flinches, terrified she might try to touch him again. “Shh, sh, it’s okay. No one’s going to touch you. Are you okay?” Jaskier takes in a few deep breaths, slowly pushing his hands under him, working up the energy to push himself up.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, <em>what the fuck was that</em>?” His voice is hoarse and his throat is dry. He finally managed to push himself up enough to roll over to his back. He takes in a few deep breaths, much easier now that he’s not crushing his lungs.</p><p class="p1">“I was wrong about your curse, Jaskier.” Jaskier finally manages to open his eyes, blinking hard. He can see Triss siting next to him on the floor, worried out of her mind. Lambert hovering over him, bent at the waist, stony faced but eyes full of concern. And on the floor, leaning against the desk, is Yennefer, drenched in sweat. The veins in her arms are still glowing like there’s a candle inside of her, her hands are still shaking, and her eyes are closed as she continues to breathe slowly. Purposefully. “The curse used me like a lightening rod, pulling the chaos through both of our bodies.”</p><p class="p1">Jaskier looks at her, confused, the fear slowly beginning to seep back in. He lifts his hands to his head so he can see them, terrified by what he’ll find. His throat closes up, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. His heartbeat immediately starts pounding again. Terror pours through him like ice in his veins. Oh gods, <em>his hands</em>.</p><p class="p1">The pain has dulled down to a throbbing ache, in rhythm with his heartbeat, but the <em>skin</em>. His fingers are blotched red, like the blood vessels have popped open and filled the skin with it’s ugly color. The color shifts slowly around the second knuckle into something pinker but still clearly burned. By the time his fingers meet his palm the burn only follows the shape of his blood vessels, like Yennefer but far more like a scar on his skin rather than a candle illuminating her from within. Hot, angry, terrified tears run down his face, pooling into the hair at his temples and he breaks out into violent sobs. Carefully he balls his hands into fists and he manages to do it without too much pain. Whatever happened is mostly cosmetic but he’s still going to have to take a week, maybe a month, away from his lute before he’ll be able to touch it again. He touches one hand to the other and when he finds that he’s lost no sensation at all he heaves a heavy sigh of relief.</p><p class="p1">No one touches him and he’s thankful for it. His body screams for touch, for comfort, but he’s terrified that he’ll feel that same stab of pain and it’s not worth it for that. “What the fuck did you do to me?” He screams, not restraining himself at all, so loud it makes his head swirl. Everyone around him flinches but Yennefer. She opens her eyes and looks down at him, eyes full of remorse. Jaskier forces himself to sit up, head swimming from the blood rushing back to his head, and wipes the tears from his eyes. He tosses off his doublet because it’s only making him feel worse. He glares at Yennefer the entire time, focusing everything left in him to hating every fibre of her being because if he doesn’t he’ll pass out again and he needs to know what’s happening right now.</p><p class="p1">“Originally I’d thought that the chaos was trying to escape your body because the sorceress who’d made the potion did a poor job of it, or that it was an old potion that was already breaking down naturally. I’d assumed this because of the energy I could feel pouring out of you.” Jaskier can see Triss standing up, hands shaking, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Yennefer. His rage dissipates the more he focuses on her words and the genuine apologetic tone of her voice. “It seems that the curse is actually very well made, but it’s your body itself that’s rejecting the chaos.” Triss sets down a glass of water for him and holds another out to Yennefer. He sags, closing his eyes, as the waves of regret and exhaustion pour over him. He can feel his lip trembling and he sniffs, trying to hold it together just a little longer.</p><p class="p1">“Drink, Jaskier.” He can hear the glass being pushed across the floor, closer to him, and he nods. He wipes at his eyes once more before he opens them and drinks the glass in one go, gasping for air once he’s done.</p><p class="p1">“My hands?” Yennefer sighs, averting her gaze to look at her own. The veins are still prominent, still glowing, and he wonders if she’d experienced the same level of pain he did.</p><p class="p1">“We have salves, poultices, even an elixir or two maybe, that can help. Is there pain, or loss of sensitivity?” Triss’s voice is soothing, reassuring. She refills his glass for him and he fucking loves her for it. </p><p class="p1">“No loss of anything, I even seem to move them around fine. It’s sore like a bruise but nothing worse than that.” Triss sighs with relief, smiling and nodding, full of enthusiasm.</p><p class="p1">“That’s very good little stow away. Very good. I can have you fixed up so that you’ll be back to playing the lute by the end of the week.” Jaskier breaks out into another gasping sob, overwhelmed with emotion.</p><p class="p1">“Thank <em>fuck</em>.” He smiles, chest heaving, and then giggling like a madman. It takes a moment for him to calm himself down, he distracts himself by focusing in finishing his second glass of water.</p><p class="p1">“The curse pulled chaos from my body into yours to build enough power to break through the constraints you built. It burned you because your biology was actively rejecting it the entire time.” Yennefer seems to be more settled now, pushing the sweaty hair away from her forehead. The glow in her arms has settled into a dull glow, nothing as bright as from before.</p><p class="p1">“Lambert.” Lambert crouches down to even their eye level. Jaskier realizes that Lambert is as close to him as he possibly could be without touching him, looking at Yennefer from across his legs. He looks up to his face, curious. Has he decided that Jaskier can be trusted now? “Find me some iron.” Lambert silently pulls a small dagger from his boot and hands it over and it makes him snort. Jaskier catches Yennefer rolling her eyes as she takes the dagger from him. “Of course you carry an iron dagger.”</p><p class="p1">The dagger is as thick and as long as his pointer and index fingers. He watches Yennefer twist it around, inspecting it, running a figer down the flat of it to ensure that it’s smooth. It looks well cared for, shining in the sunlight like oil, not a hint of rust on it. She sits up and indicated for Jaskier to hand something over. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t move a muscle. “I’m not going to stab you Jaskier, hold your arm out.”</p><p class="p1">Jaskier glances over to Lambert, concerned, and he nods. Jaskier looks into his eyes for a moment longer and Lambert looks right back. He’s safe. Jaskier wishes he could curl around Lambert and fall asleep in his arms, surrounded by the warm, foresty scent of him. He sighs and turns back to Yennefer, holding his arm out as instructed. Careful to not touch him with her own hands, Yennefer presses the flat of the dagger onto an area of Jaskier’s forearm that isn’t as marred as the rest of it.</p><p class="p1">The iron is cold and it makes him hiss, but it warms with his body soon enough. Then the warmth becomes hot. Nothing like the searing heat he’d felt earlier, but enough to make him itch. He frowns but doesn’t pull away, confused about what reaction Yennefer may be looking for. “Does it hurt?” She asks, tilting her head to try and capture his attention.</p><p class="p1">“It doesn’t hurt, but it does itch like crazy.” Yennefer hands the dagger back to Lambert and Jaskier immediately goes to scratch the skin. They can all clearly see where the dagger was pressed against his skin by the red outline it left behind. “Did that mean something?”</p><p class="p1">“Means you’re a fuckin’ fairy.” Lambert says, smiling his little shit smile, eyes gleaming with the double entendre. Jaskier smiles wide, too happy to have his friend back to bother feigning offense.</p><p class="p1">“Probably a fourth fae. Maybe less, but no more. You don’t have any obvious majicks of your own, but you have a strong self defense system. Do you usually get sick? Broken limbs, colds, hay fever?” Jaskier’s smile falters when Yennefer says that. He looks around at everyone for a moment, checking that they’re all smiling like he is. Surely they can’t be serious. If anyone in this room thinks he’s any part fae they must be crazy. They all look suddenly very serious.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not fae, Yennefer.”</p><p class="p1">“You have within you one of the most powerful, well made curses I’ve ever seen. There is absolutely no reason for it to not be functioning exactly how it should. You’ve also got it locked up in one of the most powerful cages I’ve ever seen. Your body not only rejected the chaos it siphoned from me, but it also survived holding that amount of power without any life long damage. Your skin reacts to iron and, most damning of all,” Yennefer grabs the bottle of vodka still on the desk and shakes it in the air sloshing around it’s contents, “you can drink half a bottle of this vodka without dying.” That earns a snort from Lambert and even Triss smiles at the joke. Any other day Jaskier would have laughed, absolutely delighted by Yennefer’s sense of humor, but he’s far too exhausted today.</p><p class="p1">“Melitele help me, you’ve all gone mad.”</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">As Geralt watches the fire burning away a new scent begins to surround him. It enters his awareness slowly, reminds him of something familiar. Something safe. He watches the fire slowly die down, the lower the flames get the stronger the scent becomes. The wood glows, the fire reduced to little more than embers and smoke. As the warmth from the fire dissipates he slowly becomes more aware of his physical body. He can feel the weight of his arms, the tension in his thighs, the dull ache in his shoulders. Once the light is gone and he’s left with nothing more than ash he’s able to open his eyes.</p><p class="p1">The sunlight is just this side of too bright and it takes a moment for his sight to adjust. It’s maybe an hour after midday now so the light is brighter than before but his senses aren’t as frayed as they were earlier. He’s still sensitive, but it’s much easier to suppress them, to ignore the unnecessary cacophony of noise now. He rolls his shoulders and clears his throat.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel.”</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” He can hear amusement in Eskel’s tone and that’s good. He hadn’t been looking forward to the glances of disappointment or annoyance he’d receive when he returns. He can tell that he’s still too vulnerable for it to not devolve into a fight, some petty, base need to reassert his dominance. The Wolf is restrained now but he’s still too close to the surface. He’ll need another day at least to regain his control, two before he’s back to his usual self. “You could’ve left a note for us.”</p><p class="p1">“Kinda got knocked on my ass.” He turns around to the direction Eskel’s voice is coming from and finds him inspecting a deer hanging from a tree. They’re fairly far away from him, the deer has been properly field dressed and Geralt has absolutely no memory of doing it. It’s probably where all the blood he’s covered in is from then.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier told me. I managed to keep Yennefer from killing him but I had to agree to let her dig around in his mind to make sure he’s not another infiltrator.” Geralt growls before he can catch it. Eskel doesn’t react but Geralt closes his eyes and squeezes his hands into fists, swallowing the worst of it. It’s the right decision and he knows it was, but it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Hopefully she’d made it as painless as possible for him, though he somewhat doubts it. Geralt knows that Eskel wasn’t just joking around when he said he had to convince Yennefer not to kill him, she’s fiercely protective of Ciri. If she had even a single doubt that Jaskier couldn’t be trusted then she would have killed him regardless of Eskel’s deal.</p><p class="p1">“You did a great job on the deer. C’mon, lets get it back before it has a chance to spoil. Spring is upon us, can’t just leave them hanging around outside anymore.” Geralt sighs, getting to his feet with some effort. He’s not looking forward to walking back to the Keep covered in dried blood and sweat, dirt smeared into his skin and leaves in his hair. Not to mention the fact that emotionally, he doesn’t want to go back yet.</p><p class="p1">Eskel doesn’t walk slowly, or bother projecting his movements, because he’s earned the ability to do that after a lifetime by Geralt’s side. He could lose his every memory and he’d still trust that man’s scent and allow him to approach without fear. Eskel moves close, close enough that their chests almost touch, and Geralt hesitates for a half a second before he remembers he’s allowed to do this. He rests his forehead on Eskel’s shoulder and breathes in deep, the scent of him comforting, soothing his frayed nerves in a way that meditation simply would never be able to. Eskel rests his cheek on Geralt’s head and a he wraps a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, squeezing gently. For a wild moment Geralt feels like a child again, exhausted and terrified, seeking comfort in Eskel’s familiar scent and warmth, shaking because he’d just agreed to face extra trials.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe a wash, first, though?” Geralt nods in relief, not quite ready to face his consequences. “C’mon, I smelled a lake nearby.”</p><p class="p1">When they get there he’s surprised to see Eskel stripping alongside him but doesn’t question it. It’s almost like old times, skinny dipping with his brothers back before they’d even taken the trails, when life was simple and ordered and they fell to bed exhausted and sore and sleep came easily.</p><p class="p1">He’s anguished. Wading into the cool waters, soothing his overheated skin, he’s in a right enough state of mind now to handle his emotions. To deal with them. “Is it a mistake that I’ve never spoken to Ciri about her mother?” He focuses on wiping the blood from his arms rather than look at Eskel right now.</p><p class="p1">“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Geralt smiles, picking at the clumps of dried blood in the air on his arms. It stings a little but it’s now or later when it’ll be even harder to clean.</p><p class="p1">“She’s sad. She’s alone, even now. I thought never talking about it would be better but maybe it’s been worse. I never talked about it because it hurt me too much to and I’d assumed it would be the same for her. She was only four when her mother died. She doesn’t even remember her face.” Geralt glances up to see that Eskel’s floating in the water, basking in the sunlight, shameless and relaxed. It’s quite the sight to behold.</p><p class="p1">“So you ran off into the woods because of Ciri? Not Jaskier?” Geralt sinks into the lake, fully submerging himself, making a sorry attempt to clear the blood from his hair. It’s an excuse but a necessary one. He needs time to put his thoughts in order before he speaks.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier. He’d run just as much from Ciri as he did from Jaskier. He’d been so, so good with Ciri. He was quiet, he listened, he even made her laugh despite her tears. It was. Fuck, it was a glimpse at what he could have. What he’d never once allowed himself to want, to even dream about.</p><p class="p1">He resurfaces and wipes the water from his face, wrings out his hair. It sends a fresh wave of pink rivulets down his shoulder but he’ll have a chance to use soap once he gets back to the Keep so he doesn’t bother rinsing it again. “Jaskier’s the only person who’s visited the Keep who’s been in a court in the past fifty years. She just wanted to hear the new songs, learn the new dances.” Geralt huffs. Floating seems like a great idea now. Eskel’s really smart, he should tell him sometime. “He brings fun. She doesn’t have enough fun.”</p><p class="p1">“We’re witchers, Geralt. There’s not a lot of fun to be had around the Keep.” It’s not necessarily true. There were fun moments in his childhood. They were rare, but they happened. Usually only when they’d escaped the high walls of the Keep. Geralt frowns, Eskel’s right, once again. The only fun to be had at the Keep is only achieved by escaping it.</p><p class="p1">“Maybe I’ve been too protective.” He can hear Eskel laughing right before he flounders, falling back into the water because he’d broken his float. Geralt scowls, kind of wants to grab a hold of him and keep him under the water a little longer just to teach him what for. Still. He’s right. Again. Fucking asshole.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Since Geralt’s clothes are already wrecked he’s the one that carries the deer back. It’s been sufficiently bleed but Eskel had no desire to risk his clothes if they’d been wrong. He has it draped across his shoulders, each hand holding a set of thin legs to keep it steady. They don’t arrive until well past sunset, late for the peace talks.</p><p class="p1">Oh, shit, the peace talks.</p><p class="p1">“Eskel, who’s going to the peace talks tonight?”</p><p class="p1">“Yen and I did last night and tonight it’ll be Triss and Yen.”</p><p class="p1">“Last night? No, I went to the peace talks last night.” Eskel looks over at him, confused and looking like he’s trying to decide if Geralt’s joking or not.</p><p class="p1">“Uh, no, Geralt. You were gone all day yesterday. You’ve been gone two days now.” Geralt shakes his head, heaving a sigh. Of course he’d been gone two days. He’d lost an entire day to the wolf. When they walk up to the gates Lambert’s already waiting for them, arms crossed. He’s exuding his usual dont’-give-a-shit attitude but Geralt’s known him long enough to see the exhaustion and the relief on him.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, I see what you’re up to. Bringing back one more animal to pretend like you didn’t get your knickers in a twist.” By now Geralt’s centered enough that he only rolls his eyes. The deer is heavy and he’s tired, already been two days without food. Although, it might be possible that he’d hunted something smaller than the deer and eaten it raw, wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it.</p><p class="p1">“How’d the meeting go?” Eskel asks because Geralt’s not about to ask. He does watch Lambert shrug, though. Lambert falls into line behind them as they continue on. There are a few witchers by the door who offer to take the deer off of his hands and take it to the kitchens to be dealt with properly. Geralt thanks them as he squats some to allow them easier access to the carcass.</p><p class="p1">“Turns out our little stow away is a quarter fae.” Geralt looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot he’s ever met. Did he really think they would fall for that bullshit ass line?</p><p class="p1">“Bullshit.” Eskel says it before Geralt has the chance to. The three of them stand around the entrance to the Keep like a bunch of assholes, both of them staring at Lambert like he’s grown a third eye in the center of his forehead.</p><p class="p1">“I smell like I’m lying?” Geralt moves to grab Lambert by the collar and shake him he’s so fucking angry all of a sudden. It’s just his nerves being so fried all ready and his current very sore spot for Jaskier but Eskel catches him before he can do anything stupid.</p><p class="p1">“Cut to the chase, Lambert.” Lambert glances between Eskel and Geralt for a moment and then seems to relent, letting his arms drop to his sides.</p><p class="p1">“Yen had a looksie around, he’s clean, but her majick did a number on him. Apparently his fae biology was rejecting her majick or something, I don’t really know. Lots of shit I don’t know anything about. It was a shitshow, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Geralt watches with increasing horror as Lambert sighs, genuinely bothered. Whatever he’d seen seemed to really shake him, he looked worried. “He’s gonna be fine but. His hands, they’re. He said they didn’t hurt but they looked burned.” Geralt’s seized by his fear again, sudden and overwhelming, and before he knows what’s happening he’s pressed against the stone wall of the Keep, Eskel pressed against him. He claws at the stone and tries to push Eskel off but he’s not exactly in his right mind, or as well fed as Eskel is right now, so he only succeeds in pushing away from the wall just to be shoved right back into it.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, I’m going to need you to calm down.” Eskel’s voice is level, calm, his lips close enough to his ear that he can feel the wetness of them. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and tries to regulate his breathing, allowing the scent of Eskel to pour over him.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry, Geralt. He’s okay, really. Triss said she could have him fixed up so he can get back to his music by the end of the week.” Lambert’s words do as much to calm him as Eskel’s scent does and he sags into the wall. Slowly, gently, carefully, Eskel releases him. Geralt pushes away from the wall far enough so he can press his forehead into the stone and collect himself.</p><p class="p1">If he’d lost his ability to play his lute, to make his music, Geralt never would have been able to forgive himself. He’d have done anything to get that back to him. It’s a realization that hits him hard enough it almost brings him to his knees. When had this happened? When did Jaskier manage to slip himself so deeply into Geralt’s heart that he’d react so instinctually to his pain?</p><p class="p1">A quarter fae. He’d age slower than a full human, not drastically, but still slower. Jaskier would have an extra -ten? twenty?- years. He’d look young for a long time. How old is Jaskier? He looks barely eighteen, he’d never thought to ask him his age. Never occurred to him to wonder about his age at all before, really. All humans seem young these days. “Where is he?”</p><p class="p1">“Still in the infirmary. He’d passed out the second I got him sat down on a cot. Didn’t want to move him. He’s really out of it.” Geralt turns around to face them, still leaning against the wall for extra support, but settled now. He’s starving, still very much filthy if not so covered in blood anymore, and exhausted already.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon, Geralt. Lets get you to the baths, some clean clothes. Maybe some dinner, too, huh. You’re gonna have to face Ciri sooner or later.” Geralt smiles, groaning.</p><p class="p1">“Is she mad?” Lambert snorts, shaking his head, already heading inside.</p><p class="p1">“She’s pissed man.” Eskel smirks and grabs a hold of his arm, shoving him after Lambert. They end up going to the kitchens anyways, eating at the countertop and being smacked when they tried to pilfer too many loaves of bread.</p><p class="p1">The bath does wonders to relax Geralt, but he spends the entire time worrying about Jaskier, and Ciri. He’s going to have to talk to her, explain why he left without a word, and then there’s the Jaskier problem. He’ already spoken to her about why he didn’t want her seeing him and she’d gone ahead and done it again. He’s tempted to just let it go, if Yennefer didn’t kill him, even went so far as to allow Triss to heal him, then he’s clearly trustworthy. He doesn’t have anything to worry about. Still, it’s a problem and he’s not getting any closer to the solution.</p><p class="p1">He decides the best thing he can do right now is sleep. Despite it being the clearly right next step he finds himself in the doorway to the infirmary. He can smell Jaskier from here. Dried sweat, exhaustion, honey and citrus, wildflowers. Did the curse only intensify something that was always there? He distinctly remembered that Jaskier hadn't smelled of wildflowers when they'd first met, but if he'd buried his nose into his neck? If he'd gotten close, or in the sunlight, would it have been there? </p><p class="p1">Geralt just stands in the doorway for a long time, smelling him, listening to the beat of his heart. He wants to sit by his side, hold his hand, be there when he wakes up. He thunks his head into the door jam and rubs his face. Dangerous little thing.</p><p class="p1">He can hear footsteps and after a while he can smell that it’s Triss. She wears a specific scent all her own creation, similar to Yen’s lilac and gooseberry combo. “Geralt. Good to see you.” Triss’s hand traces around his back to his shoulder as she walks past him, dropping as she enters the room. Geralt follows after her at half the pace, arms crossed so he doesn’t do anything stupid. “Is our little stow away getting the sleep he needs? I won’t be able to touch him to make sure his pulse is steady.” Geralt tilts his head curiously.</p><p class="p1">“His heart rate is normal, breathing fine. He’s asleep.” Triss nods, turning the corner to get a visual on him behind the screen. Geralt comes to a halt at the corner of the screen, staring at the floor. “Why can’t you touch him?”</p><p class="p1">“He’s too sensitive now. The energy he’s been using to keep the curse contained is weakening, any touch from me will only provide it with more power to break it even quicker.” He can hear the moving around the bed nervously, clearly wanting to touch him but aware that she can’t.</p><p class="p1">“The curse.” He can tell that there’s more there, but he isn’t sure what. He floats the subject, allowing Triss to answer his question without him needing to put the effort into forming it. He’s exhausted.</p><p class="p1">“We won’t be able to break it for him. We won’t be able to contain it, either.” Triss come back into his line of vision then, looking worried. “His body is trying to push the chaos out, if we tried to contain it with more chaos that would only make the problem worse. There’s nothing we can do.” Geralt closes his eyes and keeps his breathing steady.</p><p class="p1">“So, that’s it? We’re just waiting for him to pop?” He manages to keep his voice to a whisper but only barely. He digs his nails into his palms to ground himself.</p><p class="p1">“We do still have the fourth option.” Geralt frowns. “He’s part fae. They won’t kill him on sight.” Geralt opens his eyes to see the earnest look on her face. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Jaskier seems to attract trouble and chaos, barreling into his life and bringing with it the most unbelievable circumstances.</p><p class="p1">“They won’t let him leave once they have him, either.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Holy fuck guys. This chapter really fought me at every turn. Also, we have a chapter count now! Just three more to go! <br/>Thanks so much for letting me take an extra long little break, hopefully we'll go back to our usual once a week schedule but since this chapter was so difficult if I have to skip next week at least know the extra wait will lead to a better product.<br/>Please let me know how you feel about this chapter, I really slaved over it lol<br/>And thank you so so SO much for all the comments and kudos you've given me so far! It really means a lot and they really go me through my writers block for this one. <br/>&lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">He leaves his shoes and his shirt on the couch to let Ciri know that he’s back before he falls into his bed and burrows under the blankets. He knows he should go see her, he knows that she’ll be mad when she wakes up and realizes that he’s come back and didn’t go to wake her immediately. But, well, frankly he’s exhausted. He knows that no matter how upset she’ll be at him in the morning it would be nothing compared to the hurt she would feel from trying to communicate with him right now.</p><p class="p1">Sleep comes to him more easily then it once did but he still finds himself struggling to slip into it. His thoughts are on an endless loop and even as his body sinks into the bed with exhaustion, his mind still chases its own tail, wide awake. Still, he buries his head under his pillows, curls into as tight ball, tucked into himself, safely hidden under his thick cotton blanket, and tries to will himself into sleep. The cotton no longer smells like Pavetta and he’s both thankful and guilty for that fact. It’s easily the most luxurious item he’s ever allowed himself to own.</p><p class="p1">Even when surrounded by his own familiar scent he can smell Jaskier’s flesh under the clean linen bandages and the damp earth salve smeared on his skin. It was burned. Singed, not burned. Almost burned. It was an almost sweet scent. Smoke, dirt, oil, and sweet. It churns his stomach, makes his mouth dry.</p><p class="p1">Sleep comes and goes, like the tide, haunting reflections of his memory. Burned flesh, Ciri’s laughter, the sound of Jaskier’s bare feet on the cool stone. It feels like he’s trapped, watching the memories through a thick plane of glass, poorly made, warped and full of air bubbles, tinted green. He tosses and turns, skin overheated, lungs full of stale air, but he’s not willing to crawl free from his cocoon. He knows it’s the action of a frightened pup, burrowing and curling in on himself. It reminds him of the nights he spent in the dungeons, mourning his losses and shaking under the weight of his new senses.</p><p class="p1">He wants to return to those cool, quiet rooms. No windows. No sounds. Dark, damp, and perfect. The only thing that saved him those first few days after his second round of the trails was curling against the cool stone walls, breathing very slowly. Right now all he wants to do is crawl back there on his hands and knees and lock himself away for three more days. Three more years. Some part of him wants to stay down there forever. There’s a simplicity in it. It’d be much easier.</p><p class="p1">If someone told him that being a warlord was this much fucking work he really doesn’t know if he’d had done it. (He would have. Of course he would have.)</p><p class="p1">He gives up the charade after another hour of this restless sleep. Tossing the blankets aside, he sits up and closes his eyes. He controls his breathing, in, one two three four five, out, one two three four five, in. He builds a fire in his mind. Collect the wood, dig the pit, stack stones, igni. Again. Collecting wood, ensuring that it’s not damp, he’s never loved a fire that’s more smoke than warmth. Again. Digging the pit, stacking the stones, a luxurious fire, maybe one he can cook over, building it up so that it’s a truly hot fire. Slowly, his mind finds peace. It’s not a meditation, not the way he usually does it, but it’s peaceful. It allows his body to rest. Allows his mind to still. Keeps him aware enough of the world that he’s not caught off guard and unawares.</p><p class="p1">The sound of quick steps, hands brushing against the stone of the staircase, a rabid heart, sound louder than a shout in the total silence he’s found. Ciri doesn’t hesitate, barely pauses long enough to not slam herself into the door, and hops into his arms, her fists pounding against his chest with a strength that doesn’t match her still small frame. He doesn’t stop her, just wraps his arms around her loose enough that she can continue her assault. He can smell the rage pouring off of her in hot waves, but it stinks of fear, too. </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry, little cub.”</p><p class="p1">“You can’t just <em>leave</em> like that.” Geralt wraps his arms around her tighter, holding her too close now for her arms to continue moving, and runs his hand up and down her spine to try and soothe her. Her voice is barely more than a whispered whine, scared. She was scared; he scared her.</p><p class="p1">This is the first time that he’s disappeared on her. The first time she’s woken up since she’s been here full time and he wasn’t there. His anguish is doubled. The fear in her eyes snaps his heart in two.</p><p class="p1">“I know. Witchers, we.” Geralt heaves a sigh, tries to find the thread of his thoughts. He can’t make excuses and he’s careful not to, but he needs to explain himself nonetheless. She deserves an answer. “Our mutations, they make us more sensitive to the world, more easily overwhelmed when we loose our grip. I,” Geralt hesitates, taking a moment to take in a breath. Ciri’s hands encircle his neck as she sniffles, and he realizes that she’s crying. “I got scared.” Ciri pulls back to look him in the eye, confused, wide-eyed, tear stained. She looks worried.</p><p class="p1">“What could scare you?” Geralt can feel his mouth twitch on the corner into an almost smirk, charmed for a moment by her surprise. </p><p class="p1">“You, little cub.” He tilts his head to the side and levels her with a serious look. “How long have you been visiting Jaskier?” Ciri’s eyes go wide and she takes in a sharp breath, but Geralt doesn’t have it in him to be angry. She lied. She’s never lied to him before. Has she? When did he become someone she felt the need to lie to?</p><p class="p1">“Second day he got here. It was really easy to find his rooms.” Geralt frowns, closes his eyes for a moment. He’s never been capable of handling the sight of tears in her eyes. She’s worried, and nervous, but there’s some defiance there, too. It explains why she’d been so certain that Jaskier was someone he should and could trust.</p><p class="p1">“Why?” Geralt watches her expression morph into confusion, too. Mirroring his own deep, fathomless confusion. Why would she make that risk? Why would she go against his direct request. Why would she lie to him? He is struggling under the weight of his anguish.</p><p class="p1">“He was your husband.” Ciri blushes at that, shrugging, confused, and curling in on herself. She looks so small. Lost. He knows that she can see the anguish in him, but he doesn’t know how to hide it. It pours out of him, fills the room, clouds their conversation. He feels like he might be choking on it.</p><p class="p1">“That’s it? You lie to me, you risk your life here, because he’s my husband? Even after what I told you?” Ciri frowns, and he can see her hackles raising, see her struggling to not get offended or defensive.</p><p class="p1">“It means something Uncle Geralt. Even if you want to act like it doesn’t. You had no intention of letting me meet him and we both know it.” She looks petulant, defiant, and apologetic all at once. So expressive, so open, so easily read. It eases something in Geralt, thankful that she can still be this way. “He’s <em>fun</em>. He teaches me music, he wears the most ridiculous outfits, he teaches me how to dance.” The look in her eyes, the desperation and the loss, it steals whatever anger had been building inside him.</p><p class="p1">“I fear that I have spent so much time scared I would lose you once more that I have robbed you of the childhood that we all wanted for you.” Ciri shrugs, and smiles, relaxing some. Her smile is small, her eyes are still watery, but she smiles. “That’s why I got scared. I was terrified, Ciri.”</p><p class="p1">“I really am happy here.” She sniffs, and Geralt’s heart warms. He can believe that, he knows it to be true. She revels in her training, wild and fierce, and she is free. Her path is hers to choose. “And I’m really sorry I scared you.” Geralt lets himself smirk, and shrugs a little too.</p><p class="p1">“You made me scared; I made you mad.”</p><p class="p1">“I made you mad; you made me scared. We’re good?” Geralt smiles, nods.</p><p class="p1">“We’re good.” Geralt follows Ciri up the stairs, tying his hair back as he does it. The sun is barely coming up, her training won’t start for at least another hour, they have some more time to talk and they may as well do it with toast and tea. It hits him then, watching her slice the bread, collect the jam, stoke the fire. He’s known it for a long time, it would smack him across the face every winter when she’d hop out of her carriage with her mother.</p><p class="p1">She’s been here for three years now. He hasn’t missed a single day of her life. Maybe that’s why this feels so shocking, because he’s been able to see it happen so slowly that he never really even noticed until just now.</p><p class="p1">His little girl is growing up. One day he won’t know her every thought. He won’t know where she is at every moment, he won’t know that she’s safe. She’s going to leave one day. Make her own choices. It churns his stomach with ice, makes his throat close up. Fear. Is that what children are? Constant fear.</p><p class="p1">She turns to him, smiling, and hands him his own toast. She must have made it for him while he was lost in thoughts again. She gave him a thick layer of the jam. Fear and love. Happiness and anxiety.</p><p class="p1">“So, what did I miss?” He watches her go over the events of the past few days, hands flying around. He tries to keep up, to memorize every second, every smile, every sound. All he can really do is hope that he’s taught her what she needs in order to live a happy life, a good life. The life she chooses.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">__________________________</span>
</p><p class="p1">He finds better balance during training. It doesn’t even occur to his brothers to go easy on him, in fact, they all go a little harder on him. It’s good, it’s exactly what he needs. His body is sore, loose, drenched in sweat, and every step that he takes reminds him that he is in his body, it exists, it’s his, and he has control over it. He feels settled again. Grounded.</p><p class="p1">Yennefer slips into step beside him, silently, holding a robe and her own personal soap. She still uses her own strong scent, regardless of the way it tends to make the noses of some witchers, namely Cats, burn. Geralt smirks. “Yen.”</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” He doesn’t miss that the way she holds her robe covers up her hands, and he wonders if she’s suffered any of the same damage that Jaskier did. He’s seen her unleashing terrifying power and the months of recovery that followed. At least he doesn’t smell charred flesh.</p><p class="p1">“I’m assuming that since he’s still alive you’ve decided he’s worth our trust.” Yen smiles, eyebrows bouncing. Her heels making a loud clack on the stone stairs as they descend into the baths.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, well. I didn’t get to spend as much time rooting around as I was hoping to but, as you said. He’s certainly still alive.” She turns to look at him then, stepsconfident, and he can see her unrestrained concern. It’s not open she makes her emotions so blatantly obvious and he’s never been the type to force her into using her words when she’s already made herself so vulnerable.</p><p class="p1">“Exhausted.” He says it with a small smile but she doesn’t miss the sincerity in his voice. She steers them to a clear bench close to one of the pools that are safe for humans. He’d kind of wanted to let himself boil for a few hours but she clearly wants to speak to him further. The baths are almost empty when compared to how full they were just a month ago, especially during this time of day.</p><p class="p1">“I can make you a sleep aid, something to blunt your senses. Nothing too harsh, it won’t drag you kicking and screaming into unconsciousness or anything like that. Just a gentle nudge.” Geralt’s never liked sleeping potions, but he can trust Yen when she says she’ll make something gentle. Still, he shakes his head, uninterested.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, though.” He understands why she offered despite knowing he’s still say no. The two of them are people of action. Yen doesn’t say ‘I care about you’ and much as she simply shows it and leave them to make the necessary assumptions on their own. Geralt slips into the pool first, he has fewer laces to deal with. “So? You and Triss.”</p><p class="p1">“Triss and I.” She looks deeply pleased and says nothing more. Geralt likes the look of it on her. Grounded. Geralt rests his elbows on the floor and allows his eyes to unfocus a little, to rest. He wants to know every single piece of information that Yen dug up in Jaskier’s mind, to know his thoughts, the taste and the shape of them how she did, but he keeps his mouth shut. Jaskier offered Yen access, not him. Yen trusts him and that means Geralt trusts him. Whatever secrets Jaskier decides to give him will be his own to give.</p><p class="p1">“And the talks, while I was gone?”</p><p class="p1">“They went well. The council wanted to throw a hissy fit about your absence but we cowed them to silence easily enough. It helped that Eskel is already well known as your Right Hand.” Yen slips under the water with that, likely to deal with her hair, and Geralt ponders lazily about doing the same. He’ll need to return to the rhythm of his place here, the tasks expected of him, the endless work he’s allotted for himself. It’s worthwhile work, good work, but work all the same. He still hasn’t moved though, by the time Yen comes up for air. She lathers soap in her hands, works it through her hair slowly, quietly, comfortably. This isn’t the time she usually comes to bathe, they usually don’t share space, and it’s nice to. Reminds him of when they first met. He doesn’t outwardly watch her but he’s aware of her movements, vaguely.</p><p class="p1">He’s worried.</p><p class="p1">His mind still runs in circles, but it’s lazier now, dulled by the hot water and the satisfied soreness in his muscles. His stomach is tying itself in slow knots, looping together, tangling beyond repair. It makes him restless, is beginning to make him restless, he will be too restless soon, to continue enjoying his bath.</p><p class="p1">Yen’s quiet companionship is good, though, comforting and calming enough to keep it from building to quickly. He’s still relaxed enough that he can ignore the way it’s building up at least.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier fits. Geralt didn’t even know there was a missing piece. Maybe there wasn’t, but Jaskier still found a space, or made a space. Either way, he fits. He is an exciting burst of youthful energy, trusting and free and light. Unburdened by the silent weight that sits on the shoulders of his brothers, even Ciri. Centuries of losses heaped upon them. Jaskier carries none of that.</p><p class="p1">“He did serve in the Redanian Secret Service for about a year.” It takes a moment for Geralt to process what she’s said. He turns to look at her, unsure if she’s bullshitting him. It sounds like she is but the delighted look on her face tells him she’s not. It’s just too strange.</p><p class="p1">“And he’s still alive.” A question that doesn’t sound like a question. He knows that Jaskier is still alive, he’d listened to his heartbeat last night. Even moments ago Yen confirmed it, Jaskier is alive. Yen just shrugs, wringing her hair dry, water dropping into the pool like a short burst of rain. She’s smiling like she’s just heard the funniest joke in the Continent.</p><p class="p1">“Ask him about the details.” She looks far too amused. It makes his mind spin, deeply curious instantly. It must be quite the little anecdote. He’d already intended to speak to Jaskier but now at least he has an easy excuse to do so.</p><p class="p1">Well, wait. Why does he feel the need to find these excuses to speak with him? That’s what the boots were. What the spiked tea was. Now that he’s fully aware of what he’s been doing it feels. Bizarre.</p><p class="p1">“Take one more day off, Geralt. Eskel and I will handle the talks tonight and tomorrow we can catch you up with the progress we’ve made in the council meeting.” She smiles and reaches her hand out to scratch under his chin like one would a pup. He lets her and he pretends that he merely tolerates it. She winks as she drops her hand. He can tell that she’s preparing to leave soon but he has one last, urgent question. Something that’s been spinning around and around in his mind like an annoying fly.</p><p class="p1">“How much will his fae biology effect his aging?” Yen pauses, pouting a little. She seems stumped.</p><p class="p1">“Difficult to say exactly, but my guess is he’ll live twice as long as a regular human. He’s only a quarter.” Yen pulls herself out of the pools, feet making a wet slap on the rock, water pouring loudly. She doesn’t bother to say goodbye. He lazily considers following her, getting out simply because he’s been here long enough, but he hasn’t properly washed yet. He doesn’t particularly feel the need to, he really only came here to enjoy the warmth of the baths, breathe in the steam, and adjust himself to the noise of a quarter full Keep. The sweat on his body is already gone, replaced by the fresh mineral water of the baths and that’s good enough for him.</p><p class="p1">There are witchers here. Men who have settled. Men who found purpose teaching the new generation. There are men who sent reports from homes they built in villages or cities. Men who wanted roots, companionship with humans, families even. It’s good work. Geralt relaxes into the rock, allowing himself to doze. He’s doing good work. Ciri isn’t the only one who he’s succeeded in providing a free life. A life they can own, and choices they can make.</p><p class="p1">His revere is snapped by Lambert jumping into the pool next to him, splashing him throughly, water pouring down his face, in his nose, his eyes, his fucking ears. He grumpily wipes the water from his eyes and glares at the lump of Lambert he can see under the water and kicks at him when he comes up only to spray even more water when he shakes his head like a pup. Lambert looks happy, even if he is an asshole, and his lack of retaliation is as good as an apology.</p><p class="p1">“Heel, boy.” Eskel says as he slips in next to Geralt with more grace. Geralt can smell something over the dried sweat on their skin and the minerals in the hot water and the steam and the soaps. Something sweet.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck you.” Lambert says with his usual heat, raising his fist in the air like it accomplishes anything.</p><p class="p1">Wildflowers.</p><p class="p1">“Well since you’ve begged so nicely.” Lambert rolls his eyes and goes to kick Eskel next which never works out in his favor. Eskel’s made it his mission to perfect the art of capturing Lambert’s erratically thrashing limbs since the first day he was brought to them. It’s almost nostalgic, watching Lambert get yanked under water by his leg to Eskel laughter.</p><p class="p1">Geralt turns his head to see Jaskier undressing slowly, almost hesitantly, his back turned to them. He’s standing in front of the bench where Geralt’s things are still sitting in a lazy pile, now layered under Lambert and Eskel’s strewn pieces, but Jaskier takes his time to fold his doublet. He didn’t seem the type, Geralt’s visited his rooms before, clothes strewn about haphazardly.</p><p class="p1">Geralt doesn’t say anything, just turns his attention back to the water, catching Eskel’s gaze as Lambert comes up for air, breathing hard and pushing a wave of water at them both. He wants to leave. He should leave.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt!” Jaskier slides into the water next to Eskel, smiling and waving like everything is fine and normal and he didn’t just get his hands turned that horrible red color because Geralt got spooked and ran off like a coward. Jaskier doesn’t seem to feel any of the awkwardness that Geralt does.</p><p class="p1">He’s also tucked into Eskel’s side, familiar, bold, comfortable. It throws Geralt a little, seeing them all cuddled up together.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve never seen you in the baths before, I was beginning to think you have your own secret pool somewhere that you kept all to yourself. It’s good to know you’re not the type of Warlord who thinks he’s too good to bathe with his own men, very becoming of you.” Geralt can’t help but feel confused, too, tilting his head and watching Jaskier run his mouth a little longer, babbling, and then he gets it. Jaskier’s babbling because he’s just as uncomfortable as Geralt is. He’s very good at hiding it, physically he looks completely relaxed, the only tell is the babbling.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupts him but everyone seems more relieved for it, even Jaskier. “How are your hands?” Jaskier seems stunned for a moment, glancing down at his hands for just a second before dunking them under the water. Geralt doesn’t smell the char anymore, but they’re still a beautiful, terrifying red.</p><p class="p1">“They’re healing remarkably well. It seems that my veins will always be a little more visible than anyone else’s though, but at least it looks rather interesting.” He brings his hands back up to wiggle the fingers, displaying them now. His smile isn’t as practiced but Geralt can see the sadness in his eyes.</p><p class="p1">His fingers are almost completely red, but the red begins to branch out at the knuckle, twisting together to showcase the bloodvessels in his palms, on the backs of his hands, sprawling and fading along his arm. “They don’t hurt, either. There’s some tightness, and Triss has managed to hide my lute away from me until she deems my hands properly healed, but no pain.” Jaskier drops his hands back into the water and Geralt marvels at how well Jaskier is taking this.</p><p class="p1">“It is admittedly cool looking.” Eskel says as he brings a hand back up from the water. Jaskier watches him trace one of the larger veins on the back of his palm, tense and anxious, but he lets him. The casual touch, Jaskier’s tolerance despite how uncomfortable he clearly is, makes Geralt tense. He wants to frown but he bites it back, tries to ignore it. He has no claim on Jaskier. Has actively rejected him actually.</p><p class="p1">It occurs to him that Jaskier may not be interested in him anymore. He has denied him three times now, it’s possible that he’s simply too late. Geralt looks away from the two of them, lips pressed together, no longer capable of watching their easy company.</p><p class="p1">“Good.” Is all he can come up with for a moment, regaining Jaskier’s attention for just a moment’s glance. “I am sorry it happened.” He keeps his gaze fixed on Jaskier’s hands, can feel all of them looking at him for a moment, and he desperately wants to pull himself up and leave. It feels like his presence has made things awkward and he feels out of place and he just wants to go.</p><p class="p1">He should have left with Yen.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you.” Jaskier’s hand slips from Eskel’s and back into the water. With nothing left to stare at Geralt returns his attention to the water in front of him. “Yennefer says this is actually the best case scenario. If we’d waited until the curse was weak enough for her to break it it’s possible that I would have just imploded immediately so this really is quite preferable.” Eskel chuckles and even Geralt lets himself smile. Jaskier’s tone is light and jovial, showcasing some of his darker sense of humor. Eskel’s slipped back into his usual pose when he’s in the pools, eyes closed, head tipped back, looking for all the world like he’s asleep. Lambert’s waded over to the other side to chat with that Cat he’s pretending like he doesn’t have a massive crush on.</p><p class="p1">And Jaskier’s smiling at him, waiting for him to say something. His smile isn’t like any of the other one’s he’s seen on Jaskier’s face before. He almost looks like he’s sorry, like he needs Geralt to say something, anything, so he knows that they’re still. Friends? Whatever they are.</p><p class="p1">What are they?</p><p class="p1">“You really didn’t know you were quarter fae?” Jaskier’s shoulders drop like he’s let go of something heavy, and smiles. He doesn’t look sad anymore. Geralt isn’t sure what he did to cause it but he’s glad he did. He doesn’t like the look of a hesitant Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">“How could I have known? It’s not like,” Jaskier dunks under the water, shaking his hands through his hair, splashing water around and making Eskel scowl in annoyance. When he comes back up he doesn’t even pause to catch his breath, “anyone ever said anything to me. I never noticed anything particularly magical about my childhood.”</p><p class="p1">“Is it much of a shock, Geralt?” Eskel wipes the water from his brow and turns his head to the side to look at him. Geralt nods.</p><p class="p1">“Suppose not.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose and looks between the two of them.</p><p class="p1">“Just what does that mean?” He asks as he reaches for his soap, lathering it in his hands before he starts to work it through his now damp hair. Eskel shrugs, sitting up properly and grabbing his own soap. “Your mannerisms are very much like any of other fae I’ve met. I’ve only met the tinier, more mischievous ones, but they’re all just as fearless and bold as you. I should have known the second yu slapped that Cat you weren’t fully human.” Eskel chuckles, shaking his head, and Jaskier still looks confused.</p><p class="p1">“That Cat had it coming.” Jaskier mumbles, slicking back his hair and letting a large pile of soap slap onto the surface of the water.</p><p class="p1">“Plus, the shoes thing.” Geralt says, pointing at Eskel who points back, smiling.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, it does explain the shoe thing!” Jaskier looks miffed, pouting some.</p><p class="p1">“What shoe thing?” Geralt and Eskel both give him a withering stare and Jaskier rolls his eyes, giving up. “They’re so constricting. I like to <em>feel</em> the ground, thank you very much. I honestly don’t know how anyone wears them <em>all the time</em>.” Jaskier dunks himself under the water, deep enough now that he doesn’t splash eskel when he works the soap out. This time when he resurfaces he does take a moment to catch his breath.</p><p class="p1">“Although, Geralt, I do really like the pair you left me. The heel is nice.” He says it with a smile as he slicks his hair back off of his forehead, trying to wring out the water similarly to how Yen did earlier. Oh, that reminds him.</p><p class="p1">“Yen says you served in the R.S.S.” Jaskier pauses in his ministrations, eyes wide. He straightens up, opening his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and snapping his mouth closed. Eskel chuckles, shaking his head, before he notices that he’s the only one laughing. Geralt’s enjoying how caught Jaskier looks when Eskel turns to him with a look of disbelief.</p><p class="p1">“Wait, really?” Eskel looks back and forth between them, looking torn between confusion and being impressed. “Seriously?” Jaskier smiles and crosses his arms, and huffs.</p><p class="p1">“Quite the funny story, really, I’m surprised that Yennefer didn’t explain it herself.” Jaskier looks more annoyed than anything, clearly feeling like he’s being interrogated. Geralt smirks and Eskel snorts, they both know her better than that, and they’re both enjoying watching Jaskier squirm a little. Its cute. “It was just interesting at first. They’re located right above Oxenfurt Academy,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, dropping his hands from their protective position to fling them around as he spoke, “easily the worst kept secret in the Academy, and well I just curious. I wanted to find out what kind of tricks and gadgets a spy could get. Turns out not much.” </p><p class="p1">“So that’s it? You just got bored and stopped showing up?” Eskel doesn’t look like he believes it and Geralt doesn’t either.</p><p class="p1">“The R.S.S. isn’t known to let their trainees run off so easily, Jaskier.” The smile that Jaskier makes when Geralt says this is easily the most mischievous and dangerous smile he’s seen yet. It makes his stomach flip in a very interesting, very inconvenient, way.</p><p class="p1">“Convincing them it was their idea to let me go with my life and my freedom was laughably easy.”</p><p class="p1">“Okay, so what, you just turned up and said ‘Please, sir, can I join your spy ranks?’ like, what the fuck stow away, I know you’re better at story telling than this.” Jaskier leans back against the stone, looking particularly proud of himself, and starts at the beginning. Jaskier tells stories with the same enthusiasm that he plays his music, hands flying around, his entire body poured into expressing and emphasizing his words. Geralt’s fairly certain that he’s bullshitting half of it but it’s still good, even Lambert and his Cat reenter the conversation.</p><p class="p1">It’s interesting to see this half of Jaskier, loud, comfortable, sociable. He hasn’t seen Jaskier interacting with others very much and it’s certainly surprising to see just exactly how friendly he already is with everyone. Even Lambert seems to like him more than just as an avenue to annoy Geralt.</p><p class="p1">It’s good, it’s nice. Jaskier fits.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">__________________________</span>
</p><p class="p1">“So I managed to charm one of the younger attendants and sneak in through the-,”</p><p class="p1">“Sneak in? It’s a brothel.” Jaskier frowns at Lambert. He’s told him several times by now that if he wants attention all he has to do is ask for it, but no, it seems that Lambert simply insists on being a brat.</p><p class="p1">“They didn’t accept the patronage of boys of only fourteen at the time, one of the last respectable brothels of Kerack. Do you need some attention?” Lambert’s pupils widen at that question and Jaskier just smiles, lifting his arm. Within mere seconds Lambert’s already tucking into his side, lolling his head onto his shoulder, and Jaskier runs his fingers through his short hair, scratching at his scalp a little. Everyone else has seen this happen several times by now but they all still look surprised by it. Jaskier tries not to laugh at the look on Geralt’s face, though, because he hasn’t seen this particular type of exchange between the two of them and he looks downright floored. It’s a good look on him.</p><p class="p1">“Now, are you going to continue interrupting me?” Lambert shakes his head and Jaskier’s chest warms. Jaskier still isn’t sure that Lambert is just secretly a cat someone transformed into a man for a laugh. “Okay. So,” Jaskier returns his attention to the crowd, slipping right back into his performance voice easily, “I sneak in through the back and nearly immediately get caught by The Countess de Stael.”</p><p class="p1">“Bullshit.” Lambert barks out, eyes flying open as he turns his head up to try and look at Jaskier. Now Jaskier allows himself to laugh, throwing his head back and feeling like he’s absolutely glowing. He loves this, their attention, their total engagement with him, the way they hang off his every word. He can practically see their minds building the scene as he describes it to them and it’s the purest majick in the world, he thinks.</p><p class="p1">“We just spoke about this, Lambert dear.” He pulls on Lambert’s earlobe, just a small tug, and Lambert frowns a little, settling back into his side comfortably.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier there’s no way we’re ever going to believe that you lost your virginity at fourteen to the most popular Courtesan in the fucking Continent.” Eskel punctuates his point by sending a wave of water at him, splashing Jaskier and Lambert both. Jaskier delights in their rage and disbelief, letting it wash over him and make him feel powerful, accomplished. He’s having the best time and Geralt’s right there with him, staring at him, leaning forward, engaged and interested and surprised. He loves his attention the most, incapable of looking away from him for very long, heart soaring with every smile he can pull from him. He thinks Geralt might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.</p><p class="p1">“No, I was sixteen when that happened, and she wasn’t a Courtesan back then, she was just a spectacularly expensive whore. I still get a package of macaroons every Imbolc as a thank you for all the connection I assisted her with establishing.”</p><p class="p1">“Did you ever find the elephant?” Lambert’s beau is looking at Lambert when he asks it, eyes full of unrestrained fondness, and Jaskier smiles. He was wondering when someone would remember the elephant.</p><p class="p1">“No, unfortunately my friends, my day took a very different turn and I never did have the chance to see if the rumors about the elephant were true.” Eskel rolls his eyes, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“I knew there wasn’t an elephant.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, Eskel love, there very well could have been an elephant. We just may never know.” Jaskier’s eyes glance back to Geralt, an impossible to deny impulse by now, and he looks so fond it makes Jaskier’s heart skip a beat. He wants nothing more than to drag him away and speak to him. He’s fairly certain that they’re okay, that Geralt isn’t mad at him, or going to kill him, or going to lock him away and throw out the key, but he still desperately, anxiously, wants to talk to him. He needs to make sure that Geralt understands he would never do anything to risk Ciri’s safety.</p><p class="p1">He has no idea what their relationship is anymore. How much of him he’s allowed to have, or to even want, in his life anymore. He wants to talk about that, too. Just how much Geralt wants to be a part of his life. Friends, at least. He can be happy with friends. He just doesn’t want nothing. Geralt’s eyes never stray of him for long and he feels like he might set on fire everytime he realizes that, yes, Geralt is still looking. Even after he’s concluded his little story and the conversation has shifted to one of Lambert’s stories that is subject-adjacent but not at all related, Geralt watches him.</p><p class="p1">His hands itch. His heart is fluttering erratically. He bites his lip and tries not to look every bit like the sad puppy he is.</p><p class="p1">The next time their eyes meet Geralt tilts his chin, ‘come with me?’ Jaskier nods immediately, without pause, heart in his fucking throat. Geralt nods almost imperceptibly and pulls himself out of the pool, water rolling down his body in waves. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry. If he thought he looked beautiful before. Wow. Geralt has the most perfect ass he’s ever seen. He turns his attention back to the group, now burning with his blush and making a very poor attempt to bite back his smile, waiting until he sees Geralt ascend the stairs in the corner of his vision before he scrambles after him. “Well, then, thank you all for a lovely morning everyone, I’m just going to, uh, to go.”</p><p class="p1">“Tell your husband he’s not as slick as he thinks he is, little stow away.” Lambert laughs at him and Jaskier trips over himself as he pulls his trousers on with the deadliest glare he can manage. Eskel, blessed love of his life, kicks Lambert hard enough to start another tussle, allowing Jaskier to finish redressing enough that he’s not walking through the Keep nude and follow after Geralt without further comment.</p><p class="p1">He takes the stairs two at a time, boots in hand because he can’t be bothered to put them back on. His stomach is a boiling pot of anxiety, uncertainty, a pinch of dread, and a palmful of desperation. He hopes that he’s walking into a lover’s bed and dreads that he’s walking towards a guillotine.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt.” He feels the sweet balm of relief flood through him when he turns to see Geralt leaning against the wall waiting for him, but it doesn’t last long. Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze, looking down while he pushes away from the wall and reaches out to wrap a hand around his wrist.</p><p class="p1">The touch sparks his curse to life, a spark of vibrating energy, making him bite his lip and take in a deep breath. He holds very still, allowing Geralt to bring his hand up for closer inspection, and he knows he’s beginning to blush but it’s only because he just genuinely still wants to fuck this beautiful, gentle man and he knows he’s not wanted.</p><p class="p1">“I feel that this is my fault.” Geralt’s thumb brushes over his hand, soft, hand only holding him loosely by the wrist. When Geralt does finally meet his gaze Jaskier’s knees go weak. He looks deeply, truly repentant and it only makes Jaskier want him that much more.</p><p class="p1">“As I said earlier, darling, best we found out now.” Geralt only ‘hm’s and Jaskier feels a sharp, uncharacteristic, bitter reluctance to speak. He swallows, trying to ease his dry throat, and licks his lips. “Geralt, please, you must understand.” He takes a step forward, closing in the gulf between them, a storm of anxiety raging inside his chest. It’s not a feeling he’s used to dealing with but he powers through it anyway. This needs to be said.</p><p class="p1">“I would never, <em>never</em> do anything to risk the safety you’ve provided for Ciri. I see what you’ve given her and I know exactly just how rare and precious that gift is.” He tries to project exactly how touched he is, how clearly he sees Geralt. They both value nothing more than the freedom to make one’s own choices, it’s the entire reason why they’re even married now. Geralt smiles, warm and fond, and it makes Jaskier’s heart ache while at the same time sends it soaring. Relief floods through him. </p><p class="p1">He doesn’t care what price he’s paid for it, he’s suddenly, deeply, <em>insanely</em> thankful that his fate as been tied to this man. Geralt may be the best man he’s ever known.</p><p class="p1">“I trust you Jaskier.” Jaskier’s mind is silenced. He can’t think a single thought. His heart is fluttering like a caged bird, desperate to escape, to soar, he thinks he may be dying. He’s never been stunned to silence before. His mouth gapes. he struggles to find words, he’s confused.</p><p class="p1">“You do?” Geralt’s still holding his hand, it still feels insanely wonderful, and he’s looking him right in the eye and Jaskier has to put effort into breathing. Geralt doesn’t answer, Jaskier supposes he wouldn’t see the point in admitting it twice, but he does nod, smiling fondly. Jaskier’s shoulders drop, his mind is rolling under the wight of Geralt’s trust, and his head falls, landing on Geralt’s shoulder. It’s partially due to the relief, and the joy, and his selfish need to chase the sensation of touching Geralt, that leads him to wrapping his arms around Geralt’s back and pulling the man in for a proper hug.</p><p class="p1">He can smell him, just him, not even the ever present, never fucking gone these days, scent of wildflowers. His nose is buried deep enough into his shirt that he doesn’t have to smell them, just Geralt. Just his body heat, the fresh water still on his skin, a hint of smoke from a fire. It’s comforting. He can feel Geralt hesitate for a moment before his hands settle Jaskier’s waist, and then after another moment they slide around to hold him more properly. It makes Jaskier shiver, and any left over tension pour out of him.</p><p class="p1">He’s trusted. He’s safe. He has friends here. He belongs here. He’s wanted here. He’s never felt that before. Not even when he opted to spend most of his time as a teenager in the brothel, learning the lute and several other useless instruments with the women who worked there. Even some self defense from the guards standing in the corners of the main rooms.</p><p class="p1">The only skill he has with handling his coin he learned from them. They really shaped who he is today as a man and that really seems like a truth he should spend more time thinking about. could be a good story in there, at least one good song.</p><p class="p1">Geralt pulls away and Jaskier lets his arms fall to his sides once more. He mourns the sudden and total loss of Geralt’s touch, but it’s okay. This can be enough, his friendship. As long as it’s something. His trust is more than he expected. It is more than enough.</p><p class="p1">“It’s good, you know? For kids to have a secret or two. Not that I’m a father by any means, but I think it’s good for them. Necessary.” Jaskier lets his smile slip into something more mischievous and he winks. “Besides, I had plenty of secrets as a kid and I turned out just fantastically.” Geralt shakes his head but Jaskier can see the smile he’s trying to hide as he turns to walk down the hall. Jaskier isn’t sure if he’s expected to keep following him or not, but he does, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s arm for old time’s sake. “I’m sure our dearly beloved friend Yennefer mentioned another thing or two that you’re looking for clarification on.”</p><p class="p1">“She didn’t, actually. She said I could trust you so I do.” Jaskier smiles, touched. Still, he’d been hoping for something to stimulate the conversation, some way of wiggling his way deeper into Geralt’s good graces. They walk and Jaskier doesn’t bother to pay attention where.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, you know what? I’ve just had the most brilliant idea. You tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine. We can make a game of it, back and forth.” Maybe now Jaskier can finally get his hands on some of the more elusive answers to his questions. He’s practically bouncing with excitement.</p><p class="p1">“And if one of us asks a question the other doesn’t want to answer?” Jaskier beams, he knows Geralt’s question is little more than agreement to his little plan.</p><p class="p1">“We get one pass each.” Geralt huffs out grunt and Jaskier knows he’s won. “Fantastic. I get to go first since I’ve already answered one of your questions. When did you -Oh, where are going?” Jaskier finds himself staring down another staircase and he’s having some trouble catching up. He usually doesn’t care to pay attention to where he’s going when he’s on Geralt’s arm but, well, as far as he knows there is no level below the Keep other than the pools. It seems impossible that there would be two rooms with underground pools in them so he’s struggling to see why they’d build another room underground. Unless of course he’s being walked to the dungeons. That would be a fucking disappointment.</p><p class="p1">“That seems like a waste of a first question since it’ll be answered soon enough.” Jaskier smacks at Geralt’s arm with a scowl. He is right of course, and, well if he’s getting thrown into a dungeon then there’s really no stopping it. May as well go willingly.</p><p class="p1">Besides, he doesn’t really think Geralt would throw him in the dungeons. Not <em>really</em>. He doesn’t think so.</p><p class="p1">“That was merely rhetorical Geralt, you know very well that wasn’t my first question. I’d like to know how you lost your virginity since the entire Keep will know how I’ve lost mine by tomorrow night.” Geralt snorts, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“No one asked you, Jaskier. You offered that story of your own volition.”</p><p class="p1">“True as that may be Geralt it’s my first question. Do you dare use your only pass so early in the game?” He smirks at Geralt and the man’s clearly trying to pretend like he’s annoyed but he’s failing spectacularly.</p><p class="p1">“It’s not as exciting as being taught by the Countess.”</p><p class="p1">“Darling, please, of course it’ll be exciting. Was it a youthful tumbling, a passionate first love, curious and hesitant and exciting all at once? Or were you like me, cradled in the arms of an attentive and well learned lover? Or, perhaps,” he’s interrupted before he has a chance to continue on.</p><p class="p1">“It was a long time ago, I don’t know the exact age, but it was before the trials.” Ah, so not white haired. But then,-</p><p class="p1">“What color was your hair then?” Geralt gives him a knowing look and Jaskier pouts. “If you aren’t going to answer an innocent follow up question then you’ll just have to do a better job of providing all the fun details yourself.”</p><p class="p1">“Curious fumbling. We didn’t hide, never could even if we wanted to, but it still felt…” Jaskier watches Geralt look for the right word, their footsteps slowing even more so they’re barely even walking. He has to resist the urge to yank on his arm, bring him back from where he’s gone. Jaskier wants to see it, what he’s thinking about, those first moments of affection, of overwhelming touch, he wants to know how it <em>felt</em>. “Nice.” Jaskier sighs, just barely resisting the need to roll his eyes and really lean into his dramatics. Nice, just nice, bit of an anticlimatic to be sure, but he can see that Geralt’s still far off somewhere and it’s a good look on him. He looks smitten.</p><p class="p1">“It was another Wolf.” Jaskier doesn’t say it like it’s a question but it is. He feels a chaotic thrum of energy in his body, nearly bursting with it, and he can’t shut his mouth long enough to allow Geralt a chance to respond. “Have I met him?” His eyes are wide but he can’t glean anything from Geralt’s expression no matter how hard he tries.</p><p class="p1">“It’s my turn, Jaskier.” Jaskier pouts, frustrated, and he berates himself for coming up with this game, it’s utterly horrid.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, okay. Very well, Geralt. What’s your question?”</p><p class="p1">“Those songs you sing, the ones you wrote about us. You believe them?” Geralt doesn’t look at him when he asks it, choosing to keep his focus on the door they’re approaching. It’s surprising, he didn’t expect Geralt to ask something like this. “You really think we’re heroes?”</p><p class="p1">“Of course I,” Jaskier stops short at the doorway, watching Geralt move inside with ease, comfortable. He’s already kneeling in front of the hearth, tossing in an extra log by the time Jaskier’s mind is properly functioning again. He’s looking at one of the most lavishly decorated rooms he’s seen, something truly fit for a King. “Geralt, I didn’t think you had such refined taste.” Geralt snorts, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">The room is large, filled with soft couches and covered in even softer blankets and pillows. He wants to touch everything, reaching out to do exactly that before he realizes he’s still holding his boots. He tosses them beside the door without bothering to glance back and runs his hand along the back of the couch. “Frankly I never suspected you would enjoy this level of excess.” One wall is nothing but books, top to bottom, and every other wall is decorated with either tapestries or paintings. The floor is carpeted with soft, well kept pelts. He’s struggling to see Geralt in any of it, to reconcile his idea of Geralt with the living space he’s occupying. </p><p class="p1">“I can’t accept the compliment. This is all Pavetta’s stuff. Never felt right, clearing it all out, when she died.” Geralt stands up and wipes his hands on his thighs, crossing the room to a kitchenette. “Tea or coffee?”</p><p class="p1">“Coffee, please. Maybe with whiskey if you’re amenable?”</p><p class="p1">“Besides, this is just as much Ciri’s room as it is mine now. I didn’t want her to feel like I was. Erasing them.” Jaskier knows that Geralt’s back is turned to him when he says that but he wouldn’t have bothered trying to offer him a look of condolence or pity regardless. Geralt doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, and would resent Jaskier for trying to offer it.</p><p class="p1">He recognizes the soft leather filling up an entire shelf on the bookshelf from across the room. He feels pulled to them, compelled to touch them, and he wonders what he’ll find when he opens them. There’s so many of them. How many scars will have been purposefully, lovingly recorded in their pages? There’s nothing written on the spines but he knows what they are. He wants desperately to open them but he resists the urge. He’ll need explicit permission for that.</p><p class="p1">“And, by the way, how dare you insinuate that I would waste my time on composing songs I don’t fully believe.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm.” Geralt passes by with his hands full and Jaskier follows the view with the vague intention to help but then he catches his first real sight of the clavichord. This room has simply been so full of surprise after surprise that he’d completely missed it.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, this must be Ciri’s instrument! Do you mind if I play it, it’s been years since I’ve touched one.” Jaskier is already sitting at the bench before he’s finished speaking, hands hovering over the keys. He turns to look at Geralt before he actually touches them though, waiting for confirmation. Geralt looks a little apprehensive and Jaskier puts his hands down, twisting in the chair to face him. “It’s okay, I don’t have to.” Geralt nods, looking a little relieved. Geralt turns his attention to the kettle he’s placed over the fire and Jaskier can tell that he wants to say something. It takes him a moment to find his words and Jaskier uses the lull in conversation to watch him. The glow from the fire turns his skin warm, his white hair yellow. Jaskier can’t help but smile at him. He looks so peaceful, staring into the flame, leaned back against the sturdy wooden coffee table.</p><p class="p1">“You’re the reason she started playing again.” Jaskier’s heart stutters. There’s a softness in Geralt’s gaze, a distinct lack of tension in his shoulders, and Jaskier suddenly realizes where he is. What he’s being trusted with. Geralt has done this before, shared a drink with him in front of a fire with quiet conversation, but it’s different now. This is his little home, the most protected, well hidden, little home where he doesn’t have to be anything more than a father. It’s deeply intimate and he’s been brought here. Invited here.</p><p class="p1">A thrum of excitement runs down his spine.</p><p class="p1">“My turn.” Geralt waves his hand at him in concession and Jaskier bites his lip. “Why do you make such careful drawings of your scars?” Geralt turns to give him the cutest look of utter bewilderment and Jaskier can’t help chuckling at him for it. Jaskier feels a little embarrassed but mostly just utterly besotted. “There was a journal of yours at the Academy in Oxenfurt. Used it as inspiration for my classwork. I had to fill in a lot of the details of course, you’re very stingy about them, but I’ve always wondered.”</p><p class="p1">It’s quiet between them for a while, and Jaskier chews his lip, running his thumb down the fingers of his opposite hand and wishing he’d kept his rings on. He watches Geralt prepare their drinks and tries very hard not to say anything in spite of his burning need to fill the silence. To steamroll over the awkwardness he’s created between them.</p><p class="p1">“I heal. My body has been mutated to heal better than a human, better than any other witcher. A human will get a scar and they’ll have it forever, it may fade but it will always be there.” Jaskier watches him sigh and when he glances up to meet his gaze Jaskier’s surprised by his eyes. He can see the anguish there, gentle and deep and impossible to miss. “There have been some scars that I wished I’d been able to keep.” Jaskier can’t help but smile at him, awed.</p><p class="p1">“Why?” Geralt opens the whiskey, pouring it into the mugs first. Geralt’s hands look larger than Jaskier’s despite their shared height. A warrior’s hands, thick and scarred and calloused in different places than Jaskier’s. He wants to learn every single line on those hands.</p><p class="p1">“There are actions I’ve taken that I feel should be allowed to leave their mark.” Jaskier slides from his seat onto the floor, settling close to where Geralt sits, resting his elbow on the coffee table. There’s something in Geralt’s soft expression, a little farther away, that makes Jaskier feel drawn to be closer to him. He wants to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t. He shouldn’t. He can be close, though. If Geralt reaches out he will not be denied.</p><p class="p1">“You never told me you were a poet.” Jaskier says it softly, to ease the serious tension in the air, but he doesn’t want Geralt to think he’s laughing at him. He only grunts, pushing a steaming mug to Jaskier. This is easy, and comfortable, just like it always has been, despite the scent of wildflowers, despite the way his heart aches, despite the endless need to reach out and touch and take and give.</p><p class="p1">“My turn.” Jaskier lifts his mug to Geralt to concede him his turn. It takes Geralt a moment to understand what Jaskier means and clinks their glasses together gently. Jaskier blows on the drink to help it cool down a little quicker, but of course he’s simply too excited to wait properly and only succeeds in burning his tongue.</p><p class="p1">“Buh, you do not pour lightly.” Jaskier can feel the heat of the whiskey in his nose, coating his throat already despite being blunted by the strength of the coffee. He should have known, the spiked tea he’d brought him had been just as strong. Geralt smiles, clearly laughing at him, and Jaskier’s too distracted by the beauty of it to focus on berating him for it.</p><p class="p1">“When you leave, will you come back?” Jaskier’s reaches out to squeeze Geralt’s knee, incapable of denying himself this physical comfort. The touch steals Geralt’s attention from the fire and Jaskier watches Geralt look at his hand on his knee. Geralt swallows and gently covers Jaskier’s hand with his own. It’s easy to ignore the curse’s physical influence on the touch when he’s so focused on providing nothing more than assurance.</p><p class="p1">Geralt doesn’t want him gone. He’s been worried that he’ll leave. That he won’t want to come back. It’s so sweet and so heartbreaking. Has he not made his love so painfully clear already?</p><p class="p1">“Of course, darling. I’ve loved every moment I’ve spent here. You won’t be able to get rid of me now.” Jaskier has known that Geralt wants him, he’s spent a very long time now rejecting him because of how much he wants him. That’s not the source of his building anxiety. It’s that he doesn’t know if Geralt will ever stop rejecting him. He doesn’t know if he can risk pushing at those boundaries anymore, doesn’t particularly want to, but -right now? Sitting so close, in such an intimate situation? He feels like he could. Like Geralt would want him to.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier sits back, slipping his hand away before he does anything stupid. If anything is going to happen between them it won’t be because he initiated it. He doesn’t think he can handle Geralt’s mouth on his again just to be told his touch isn’t wanted. He takes another drink, slowly sipping, to give himself an extra moment to pull himself back together. “So, Ciri. What’s the exact connection there? She’s never really spoken about it with me.” Geralt looks confused for a moment, brows coming together.</p><p class="p1">“She is my child surprise. It’s the closest a witcher can get to a biological child.”</p><p class="p1">“She adores you.” Geralt smiles. “She can be quite the feral little thing though, can’t she?” That elicits the sweetest quiet chuckle from Geralt, he’s practically radiating. It’s not difficult to love him. Not at all.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier watches Geralt put his mug down and turn to face him fully. The pupils of his eyes are wide enough that they look almost human. It’s so captivating that it takes a moment for Jaskier to realize that he’s staring and being stared at. Mere inches away from one another, so close, and here in his little home. Jaskier’s blushing, he knows he’s blushing, he can feel the warmth rolling off of him. He’ll be bright pink by now.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s hand brushes across his cheek, gentle, sparking those wonderful vibrations and making him shiver. Jaskier leans into the touch, can’t help it, greedy for it, keeping his eyes open and staring right at Geralt. “It’s cruel, to touch me like this, when you’ve told me I can’t touch you.” Geralt’s face pinches some in concern, but he doesn’t take his hand away from Jaskier’s cheek.</p><p class="p1">“Do you still want to touch me?” Jaskier can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, smiling and nuzzling into Geralt’s touch.</p><p class="p1">“Blessed Melitele, I never want to stop.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, he feels like he already sounds wrecked and it’s not fair at all that he can be given so little and still feel like it’s more than he’s ever had before. His breath comes slower, heart fluttering, hands shaking, when Geralt leans closer, close enough now that he can feel Geralt’s breath on his mouth. As much as he hates doing it Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s chest, keeping him from closing the distance, holding him back. The pleasant spark that touch brings helps to soothe the distant ache in his fingers, an ache he didn’t even notice anymore, and it makes him sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he can find his voice once more. “You can’t just. You can’t do this then push me away again. I don’t want to be for your convenience.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry, Jaskier, that I made you feel that way. You aren’t. I swear it.” Geralt’s nose bumps against Jaskier’s in a move that’s playful and charming and Jaskier’s hands curl into fists, pulling him by his shirt closer. Jaskier tilts his head so his lips can brush against Geralt’s cheek, his smile preventing it from being an actual kiss. He likes the way he can feel Geralt’s breath hitch at the gentle touch, likes that he hasn’t been pushed away yet, loves the apology. It emboldens him.</p><p class="p1">“Do you want me to kiss you?” Geralt nods, his hand curling into his hair, thumb pressing into Jaskier’s jaw to maneuver him so their mouths can slot together. Jaskier sighs, relaxing into the kiss, letting it be something slow and sweet for a moment. Geralt is a remarkably romantic kisser. There are times for that, entire nights where Jaskier can spend being slow and romantic and hesitant, but not now. He leans forward, pressing his body against Geralt’s, pushing him back, hands wrapping around his neck to grab and pull at his hair. It makes Geralt moan, low and quiet, and Jaskier smiles into the kiss, he fucking knew he’d like that.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier crowds against him, making a valiant if fumbling attempt to crawl into his lap, pulling on his hair enough to maneuver him so he can lick and bite at his neck. He doesn’t try to be gentle and Geralt’s low, rumbling, moan tells him its appreciated. Geralt’s free hand wraps around his hip, pressing in on his lower back, pulling him into his lap more properly. Jaskier grinds down, biting at his shoulder, lost in the fog of his desire. His body is burning, trembling, with his endless fucking need.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier doesn’t know what this is, what Geralt wants, but whatever this is he’ll take it. He doesn’t fucking care as long as Geralt doesn’t stop touching him. “Bed?” Geralt asks inbetween kisses and Jaskier ruins the next one with his smile, nodding enthusiastically and trying to kiss him despite his grin. It ends up being him pressing a line of half assed kisses to his cheek before he can bite at his earlobe, eliciting a deep moan from Geralt that he can feel in his own chest.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, yes. Bed. Any bed, <em>fuck</em>.” They spend a little bit longer fumbling like schoolboys before Jaskier realizes that Geralt’s not going to be the one to break this party up to get to said bed. Jaskier’s hand flails for the table and when he finds it he uses it to pull himself up, away, getting a moment of clean air. It helps to clear his mind some, just enough to solidify his need to <em>find that bed</em>, but Geralt is quick to crowd him. Geralt sits up while also trying to drag Jaskier back down, and Jaskier is incapable of denying such an obvious request.</p><p class="p1">They hit the floor this time, Jaskier spread out over Geralt’s body, breathless and panting and making grinding against Geralt’s cock much, much easier. “Fuck, Geralt, bed. I’d like a bed, I want to get you into your bed.” Jaskier’s not really helping the problem, moving to push his weight onto his knees so he can straddle Geralt better, hump into him harder, getting him to groan even louder. Jaskier can feel the vibrations of every single sound Geralt makes in his chest and it makes him want to chase after every spot that will make him louder and louder. Jaskier pulls Geralt’s shirt from his trousers, pressing his hands onto his skin, rucking it up further, ducking down to taste what he uncovers.</p><p class="p1">“I want,” Jaskier murmurs into his skin, rutting into him, sucking a mark into an ab, licking over the scar he’s intercepted, “to fuck you. Or be fucked by you. In what I’m certain,” Geralt groans, sitting up and yanking on Jaskier’s hair to pull him into a kiss. Jaskier digs his nails into Geralt’s skin, biting at his lip, still managing to run his mouth, “will be the biggest, most comfortable bed in the entire bloody Keep.”</p><p class="p1">Geralt laughs into his mouth, “Do you know me so well already?”</p><p class="p1">“Darling, it’s the-,” Jaskier shivers, letting out a keening whine, when Geralt’s teeth nip at his ear. Lovely little spot that, always has his hips moving quicker and harder. “-the little pleasures you prefer to indulge. Difficult fact to miss.” Jaskier makes another valiant effort to pull back, shocking that he’s the one trying to run away this time, twice now. “<em>Bed</em>, Geralt.” Geralt sits back, resting his weight on his hands, and nods, panting. Jaskier smirks and stands up, knees feeling very much like mush, and takes a step so he’s not standing over him. “Right, um, a door?” Jaskier looks around the room while Geralt finds his feet, and then watches with wide eyes and mouth salivating as Geralt walks off, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor.</p><p class="p1">“Well?” Jaskier hops after him, yanking his doublet off and tossing it aside as he follows him. There’s a set of stairs well hidden behind a carefully placed bookshelf and he stumbles after Geralt, pulling his chemise out of his waist and making a valiant effort to work the necessary buttons open without popping the threads. It’s very difficult, he wants nothing more than to rip it off, but this is a particularly nice chemise. It’s got the most precious floral embroidery along the neckline and the buttons, with little half-hidden swallows, it’s quickly become his favorite-</p><p class="p1">“Oh, ooph, um? Oh, oh.” Jaskier tries to take a step back from Geralt, having run directly into him, but Geralt turns and grabs a hold of him by the waist. They kiss while Jaskier works the last of the necessary buttons and Geralt’s hands trace over his stomach, flick at his nipples. And then Geralt lifts his chemise over his head, tossing it to the floor, thankfully in one piece, and he crowding him once more to suck a deep mark onto his neck. The brute does it high enough that it’ll be incredibly difficult to hide, not that he’s much inclined to. Geralt’s hands are everywhere, making Jaskier’s eyes flutter, his own hands holding onto Geralt’s shoulders to keep himself steady.</p><p class="p1">“You have oil I hope.” Geralt’s teeth bite at his skin, hard enough that Jaskier gasps, whines, moans, and bucks his hips, all at the same time. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he chuckles. Jaskier moves his hands to the waist of Geralt’s trousers, tracing the length of them on the way to his buttons. Jaskier only manages to get the first two open before Geralt picks him up. Jaskier squeaks, he’s used to more warning thankyou<em>very</em>much, and wraps his legs around Geralt’s hips as his arms scramble for purchase around his shoulders. He’s torn between feeling anxious that he’s no longer touching solid ground and insanely turned on by how easily he’s been picked up. He’s not a small man, it’s quite a nice experience.</p><p class="p1">He graduates from squeaking to yelping when he’s tossed onto the bed, bouncing up high enough that he stops touching the bed entirely before falling, once again, into it. He’s barely given a single moment to catch his bearings before Geralt’s back ontop of him, smothering him into the bed -he was right, it is insanely comfortable- and kissing him again. Jaskier’s breathing hard already, hands flying back to Geralt’s trousers to pull his bloody buttons open. He’s arching his back, rolling his hips, and slotting a leg inbetween Geralt’s in a desperate attempt to return friction to his own, hard and leaking cock.</p><p class="p1">They are, tragically, still wearing clothes. And, frankly, he’s surprised he’s remained clothed this long.</p><p class="p1">He feels desperate for a hand on his cock in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, since he was fucking sixteen and was far too new to it all. He’s usually much more composed than this, much better at prioritizing his partner’s pleasure above his own, but he’s wanted Geralt’s hands on his skin for too long. He’s been denied too often, he’s very much going to enjoy taking what he can, while he can tonight. Everywhere Geralt touches him burns with the explosive, pleasurable, insanely addictive sensation of the chaos of the curse, running and sparking and vibrating through his very veins. He is lost, entirely, to the sensation of it. Geralt’s breath in his ear, his hands on his body, his lips pressing open mouthed, sloppy kisses to his skin. He feels he may combust.</p><p class="p1">He manages to succeed in pushing Geralt’s trousers down over the swell of his ass and then he gets distracted by grabbing two handfuls of that ass and kneading the flesh. Still, this action has Geralt’s freed his drooling cock and Geralt is currently rutting into his lap, smearing his own trousers with his precome. Geralt hisses at the friction but Jaskier’s fabrics are all soft and indulgent, it must feel like fucking velvet on his cock.</p><p class="p1">“Off.” Jaskier pulls at Geralt’s trousers to make his point clearly known while Geralt licks the line of his jaw. Jaskier is honestly shocked by just how fucking hot that is, only whining a little when Geralt rolls off of him to oblige his request. Jaskier’s hands are already pulling at the lacing on the back of his own trousers, trying to kick them off as quick as possible, before Geralt can bark out the same order to him. He feels feverish, pleasure thrumming in his blood, and he gives up on the trousers once he’s managed to free one whole leg and half the other in favor of rolling ontop of Geralt to straddle him once more.</p><p class="p1">“You look good spread out under me.” Jaskier’s able to kiss him twice before Geralt has him on his back once more, and he can’t help but laugh, breathy and a little giddy.</p><p class="p1">“No small clothes?” Geralt’s hand wraps around his cock and Jaskier bucks into it, gasping and biting his lip. He’s got one hand on Geralt’s shoulder and the other in his hair, gods he loves his hair.</p><p class="p1">“Look who’s talking.” Geralt huffs into his chest, almost a chuckle. “Oil, darling, where is that bloody oil?” He doesn’t sound nearly as sexy as he’d intended, Geralt’s hand on his cock moving so slowly that it’s driving him absolutely mad.</p><p class="p1">“You always so demanding?” Jaskier scoffs, arching his back as Geralt bites at his nipple, sending a shiver down his spine. He’s drowning under his every touch, fucking himself into Geralt’s loose hold, or at least fucking trying to, already reduced to just holding on for dear life. He can feel his orgasm beginning to build up already, precum smeared all over Geralt’s hand, pooling on his belly. They’re both covered in a thin sheen of sweat and the air between them is hot, he feels like he’s barely getting any oxygen at all.</p><p class="p1">“Have we not met before?” That earns him a slow lick over his poor, abused nipple, and he absolutely loves that feeling. More of that. More of everything. Gods, this is everything he’d hoped it’d be except that he still doesn’t have a single finger inside of him. “Geralt, <em>fuck me</em>, come on, please. I’m even asking-” he lets out a low moan when Geralt’s hold on his cock finally turns into a proper fist, “-asking nicely now.”</p><p class="p1">“Bedside table, top drawer.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, of course he has to get his own fucking oil, and smacks his arm out to the edge of the bed. He’s just out of reach so he smacks at Geralt’s head, propped up on his elbow.</p><p class="p1">“Move you brute.” Geralt glances up at him with a smirk and lifts his body up so Jaskier can scoot up the few inches he needs to, and promptly finds himself at a complete loss for any form of coherent thought when Geralt’s mouth wraps around his cock. He’s still pumping the shaft, sucking and tonguing at the head, and it’s absolutely brutal, too much and too little. Jaskier presses his head into the bed, arching his back, desperately flailing his arm for that bloody fucking bedside table, and pressing his heels into the bed to try and <em>not</em> buck into Geralt’s throat and choke him. Sweet Melitele does he want to, though, he thinks Geralt would make the best sounds choking on his cock.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier groans, yanking the drawer open with enough force that some stuff manages to fall out, clattering to the floor. “Fuck, that better not have been the oil.” Geralt looks up at him with clear annoyance, but his glare is half hidden by his thick lashes and all it does is make Jaskier’s cock twitch in Geralt’s mouth. “Darling are you going to actually- <em>oh fuck</em>.” Jaskier’s hand is digging around for anything that feels like it might contain oil while Geralt finally, fucking finally, sucks his cock down to the base. Jaskier thinks he’s trying to suck his fucking brain out of his cock and he sincerely hopes he succeeds.</p><p class="p1">“I am not going to make it much longer, fuck, Geralt darling, your mouth is a gift from the gods themselves, honestly.” Jaskier finds a bottle, it’s certainly not the only bottle he’s found but it is the only one that felt like it might be full with liquid when he shakes it so, good enough, he’s far too busy enjoying the scariest Warlord in the history of the Continent’s mouth on his cock to spend more time on this.</p><p class="p1">“If this isn’t oil then you’re either going to use that fantastic tongue to open me up and take me dry or it’s your turn to find it.” Jaskier tosses the bottle down to Geralt without looking and it lands close to his shoulder and hey, look at that, it is oil. Thank the gods. Geralt pulls off with a loud, obscene, and sinfully attractive pop, squeezing the base of his cock and absolutely torturing him.</p><p class="p1">“Why am I not surprised that you talk through this, too?” Now that Jaskier’s hands are free to return to happier pursuits he slicks one hand through Geralt’s hair, pulling it out of his face, and wraps the other around his shoulder, kneading the soft flesh. Geralt picks up the bottle of oil and pulls it open with his teeth, which is also hotter than it has any right to be, and upturns it to pour it on his hand.</p><p class="p1">“You like it when I talk. You’d be remiss without my endless blathering, you’re happy that I’m running my mouth.” Jaskier’s cock is beginning to feel distinctly ignored now that the drool it’s covered in is starting to cool and he rolls his hips while pressing down on Geralt head to try and convince him to return to his previous task. All he gets for is efforts is a dark chuckle and a wet lips mouthing at his shaft, a tease more than anything else. A cruel, agonizing tease.</p><p class="p1">An oiled finger presses against his hole, no pressure, just a light touch, and it still makes Jaskier’s heart pound, biting down on his lip while he whines. A hand presses down on his hip to keep him from moving around so much and Geralt licks the length of his cock nice and slowly. A finger presses around his hole, testing, patient, brutally slow, as Geralt sucks down his cock again. The moment Geralt’s nose touches his skin Geralt presses his finger in and Jaskier writhes, hands clutching at skin, scratching at his scalp, trying desperately to fuck into Geralt’s throat and down on his finger. Geralt holds him in his throat, tight, wet, warm, un-fucking-moving while he sinks his finger in up to the second knuckle before pulling it back slowly.</p><p class="p1">He does that for a long while, reducing Jaskier to nothing, his brain to nothing, his body to a vessel capable of nothing more than breathing, writing, and shaking with pleasure, while he slowly opens him up with his finger. The second he gets a second finger inside of him Jaskier comes, not at all capable of speech, his body melting, gasping. Geralt keeps sucking him until he can’t stand it any longer, hissing and trying to push him off from how sensitive he is, while Geralt keeps fingering him open. Jaskier rides his fingers, murmuring every filthy and joyous thought that comes across is mind while he paws at Geralt, hands soothing and scratching where he can. He’s feeling a little outside of his body as Geralt presses open mouthed, wet kisses all over him, licking where he can, and biting where he wishes, slowly sliding up his body. It makes him shiver, makes him moan. It feels absolutely wonderful.</p><p class="p1">By the time Geralt’s teeth are tugging on his earlobe, licking around the shell of his ear, he’s got four fingers inside of him and Jaskier’s cock is making a valiant effort to get hard again, twitching and slowly thickening. He turns his head to brush their lips together, whispers into his mouth, wrecked and pleading, “Fuck me darling, I’m ready, I need your cock, please.”</p><p class="p1">Geralt kisses him and pulls his fingers out of him slowly, making Jaskier keen, trying to press their bodies as close together as he can. Geralt bites down on his lip, licks across the bite, and Geralt sits back onto his knees, yanking on Jaskier’s hips to drag him into his lap. Fuck, it’s so hot getting manhandled, no wonder the women are always yelping and giggling and so blessedly loud. Geralt lets go of one of Jaskier’s leg while he places the other one over his shoulder, leaning back down over him, stretching him wide open. Carefully, Geralt lines himself up and presses his cock into Jaskier’s hole, making him flinch before he presses his weight down on his one free leg to angle himself better in Geralt’s lap. Geralt’s forearms are on either side of his head, blocking him in, making him feel utterly smothered and he loves every second of it.</p><p class="p1">Geralt presses his cock into him, slowly fucking into him, shallow and slow, and Jaskier gasps into Geralt’s mouth. He tries to fuck himself into Geralt’s cock, using his one free leg to give him the momentum necessary to do it. Geralt sinks in deeper and they both gasp, moaning. Jaskier digs his nails into Geralt’s shoulders and he does it again, fucking himself on Geralt’s cock. </p><p class="p1">They kiss as much as they can while moaning and panting, Jaskier eager to swallow every single sound Geralt makes. Even after four fingers and he’s not even sure how long of prep, Jaskier still feels like he’s being over-stretched, he feels speared, he’s fucking huge. Jaskier gasps, their kiss becoming little more than just breathing in eachother’s stale air. “Gods, you just keep going.”</p><p class="p1">“Is it too much?”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t you fucking dare stop, fuck, you feel incredible. It’s perfect.” Once Geralt’s finally seated he stops, breathing heavy into his ear, and Jaskier absolutely can’t have that. He grinds down, doing his best to encourage Geralt to move. He can’t stop thinking that he can feel his cock in his fucking lungs. “Geralt, by the gods if you don’t fucking move,” Geralt bites down on his neck hard before sitting up and gripping his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Jaskier’s cock is painfully, achingly hard, and already smearing more precome on his stomach. “<em>Fuck. Me.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Geralt smirks, pulling out slowly, almost all the way out, making Jaskier whine and writhe, holding his hips as still as possible. He waits long enough that Jaskier opens his mouth, ready to plead and beg, and before he’s even formed the shape of his first consonant Geralt snaps his hips, burying himself all the way to the hilt.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier throws his head back, moaning, almost yelling really, just loud and wonton and absolutely loving it. From there Geralt keeps that wonderful, brutal, insane pace, using him like he’s little more than a hole, chasing after his own pleasure. Jaskier reaches a hand down to touch himself, desperate for it, but Geralt snarls. “No. Hands behind your head.” Jaskier whines, but does as he’s told, biting down in his lip so hard he thinks he might break the skin. “You’re going to come on my cock or nothing at all.”</p><p class="p1">“Fuck, darling, you say the most beautiful things.” Jaskier grips one wrist, hard enough that he can feel his own heartbeat in his palm, and watches Geralt fall apart, fucking into him that it feels like the whole world is shaking with it. He can see the bulge in his stomach where Geralt’s cock fills him up, framed almost artistically by Geralt’s thumbs, and it makes him breathless, makes his mouth water. “Gods I want to choke on your cock.” Geralt growls and it makes his own cock twitch, more precome drooling out of him, hot and sticky. He never wants this moment to end, this is what heaven is. It must be, there’s nothing better in the world than seeing Geralt chase after his own pleasure, that he’s the one giving him that pleasure. Fuck, he may actually come on just his cock. His thighs are shaking, he can feel his orgasm building, “faster, darling, fuck, harder,” Geralt is more than happy to oblige, more than capable of obliging, and Jaskier’s right on the edge, he just needs something, just one more-</p><p class="p1">“Fuck, fuck,” Jaskier moans, loud and shaking, as Geralt sinks his teeth into his calf, not fucking kind at all, definitely with the intent of leaving a mark that’ll take weeks to fully heal, and he’s coming so hard his vision whites out. He can, distantly, through the fog of what is easily the best orgasm in all of history, feel his own come spurting over his chest, on his neck, even a little on his chin. And Geralt, blessed man, fucks him right through it, falling forward, leaning over him, kissing him. The angle is different, Jaskier’s leg is still hanging over his shoulder only now it’s bent at the knee, he doesn’t fuck into him as hard but he’s deep, unbelievably deep. Jaskier floats in his pleasure, lost to the world, incapable of anything other than feeling Geralt’s cock and Geralt’s mouth.</p><p class="p1">He comes back to his body slowly, still foggy, because it’s started to become just this side of painful. He doesn’t want it to ever fucking stop, he doesn’t care if he’s being ripped in half it feels so good, but it’s starting to hurt now too and the longer this goes the less he’ll able to ignore it. He’s going to feel this for weeks, too. His head feels airy, far away, like he’s floating on water, but he’s more aware of his body than he was a few moments ago.</p><p class="p1">He grips Geralt’s hair, pulls it hard, and Geralt moans. Jaskier mouths at his neck, nips at his jaw, and when he gets to the area where his jaw meets his neck Geralt shivers, his rhythm stuttering. Jaskier bites down, once, twice, before sucking hard. He knows that no matter how hard he tries Geralt’s skin won’t be able to hold the bruise for longer than a few hours, but he does his best to make damn sure that it’ll be there for as long as possible. “Jask.” Geralt moans, fucking into him as deep as possible now, making Jaskier gasp, keening, before licking at the mark he’s made.</p><p class="p1">The only reason Jaskier knows that Geralt’s coming is because he can feel his come spurting inside him. Geralt fucks him through it, hard and shockingly consistent, fucking his come into him as deep as he can while also managing to drag it out and make a messy puddle around them. Gods, it’s filthy and just this side of gross but right now Jaskier’s so out of it that he’s begging for more. “<em>Why</em> haven’t we been doing this the whole fucking time?” Jaskier’s way too sensitive now, it fucking hurts, but he still doesn’t want Geralt to stop, though he is thankful that he’s at least slowed down. Geralt’s settled into little more than grinding into him, running his nose down his neck, licking his skin, and pressing all of his body weight into him. It’s sweaty, very sweaty, but also incredibly warm, and Jaskier’s still out of his head enough to not be so bothered by it that he’s ready to throw a hissy fit about it.</p><p class="p1">“I do admit, this would have been a much easier past few weeks if we’d been doing this the whole time.” Jaskier can barely hear Geralt when he speaks, his voice barely louder than a quiet grumble, but he does hear it because Geralt’s talking right into his ear, almost tickling him. Jaskier chuckles, scratching his nails down Geralt’s scalp, earning him another lazy thrust, and moans. So many beautiful sounds. </p><p class="p1">“Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time, then, darling.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm.” Jaskier shivers when he feels Geralt’s voice rumbling in his chest, smiles into his temple, unable to properly kiss him so he settles for licking at him. It’s salty and he doesn’t like it at all. He has no idea why Geralt’s still licking at him but it seems to make him happy. Geralt tries to sit up, to pull out of him, and Jaskier tightens his grip on his head, squeezes him in with his one free leg.</p><p class="p1">“No, not yet, not yet, darling. I want to feel you a little longer.” Geralt seems to hesitate, meeting Jaskier’s fervent kisses with something a little less needy, but he settles his weight against Jaskier once again. Geralt noses at his cheek, breaking the kiss, and snuffles at the hair at his temple, biting at his ear. Eventually Geralt’s face settles into his shoulder, breath tickling his neck, and Jaskier feels satisfaction bone deep. </p><p class="p1">Jaskier thinks he may be asleep. Dozing at best. Jaskier is dozing, half aware of the world around him, completely at peace with Geralt’s massive weight still on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. He feels safe, wanted, and very well fucked. He can feel Geralt breathing, slow, his heart beat, also slow, and he wonders if he’s dozing, too. If he feels just as safe and satisfied as he does. He would ask, he should ask, but he’s just too far away to do it. Not yet at least.</p><p class="p1">When Geralt goes to pull away again it’s easier for Jaskier to let him. He doesn’t want him to, but he lets him, and the loss of his touch, the loss of those very fucking wonderful vibrations that the curse so graciously adds to their touch, makes him whine. Jaskier starts to shake. He feels like he’s falling, hard, gasping, and in an instant Geralt’s hands are back on him, his face nuzzling into the side of his neck, helping to resettle him.</p><p class="p1">“Are you ok? Was that okay?” Jaskier nods, still feeling a little frantic, and purposefully tries to regulate his breathing. “Okay, okay.” Geralt’s voice is soothing, a little wrecked just like him, and he’s pressing gentle kisses along his neck. It’s lovely. Jaskier’s never really needed aftercare so sweet before, but he’s also never had to deal with a physical touch so overwhelming that that alone can have him shaking.</p><p class="p1">“The uh, the curse. Makes your touch <em>very</em> pleasurable.” Geralt’s touch stills, face resting on his neck, mouth tilting away without robbing him of any touch. “I honestly could have sworn we’d spoken about this before, have we not?” Jaskier’s sure he at least thought about telling Geralt about it. Didn’t he?</p><p class="p1">“No, I didn’t know.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, well. Oops. According to Yennefer it’s another side effect of the chaos trapped inside me, trying to escape.” Geralt pulls away and Jaskier whines again, wrapping his hands around him to hold him close.</p><p class="p1">“Jaskier, if my touch makes this worse like how Triss’s touch-,”</p><p class="p1">“No, no. Nothing like that I promise.”</p><p class="p1">“You should have told me earlier.” Jaskier frowns, tucking his own face into Geralt’s temple, feeling just a twinge of guilt.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, you’re right. And I am sorry but. I mean, we didn’t really have a lot of chances to talk about this.” Geralt ‘hm’s as helpful as ever, and Jaskier feels just a little more guilty. Not enough to allow Geralt to stop touching him. “It’s overwhelming, and very lovely, and I suspect that I’ll have to be weaned off of your touch. So I don’t end up feeling so lost without it.” That does make him feel guilty, that he’s saddled Geralt with an extra long session of aftercare. “Sorry.”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t be. Whatever you need, Jask.” Geralt slides over a few inches, face still tucked into the side of his neck, his hand still resting on his chest, but now only half of his chest covers his own, and they aren’t touching at all anymore below the waist. It’s a significant change in the amount of touch they’d shared but it’s more than palatable, Jaskier doesn’t feel upset, or abandoned, or like he’s falling, so it’s good. He nods, resting the side of his face against Geralt’s temple, and sighs. It’s a good start to weaning him off their touch.</p><p class="p1">“The more the curse falls apart, the more overwhelming this touch will get. It’ll uh. It’ll hurt one day. Just touching you.” Jaskier lets one of his hands settle on the base of Geralt’s neck, tangled up in his hair, while he trails the other up and down his flank, slow and comforting. It’s a nice moment. He wants to take advantage of this for as long as he can. “I wonder if just a touch from you will be enough to make me come before that happens though?” Geralt grunts and Jaskier can feel his smirk.</p><p class="p1">“Sounds interesting.” Jaskier settles back into his doze, feeling Geralt still breathing against him. His weight still pressing against him. Not as much as before, but still plenty. It’s easier to breathe this way at least.</p><p class="p1">“Red.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm?” Jaskier stirs, aware enough of his surroundings to feel Geralt’s hand slip away from him. The loss of that touch leaves him a little colder, but still on solid ground.</p><p class="p1">“My hair. Before the trails.” Jaskier smiles, then yawns while smiling, and takes the hand that’s been resting on Geralt’s flank away from his body, another small loss of their touch.</p><p class="p1">“I would say I’m surprised but you have the spirit of a red head.” He can feel Geralt’s face pinching in confusion, or indignation, or maybe even annoyance. He doesn’t follow it up with anything else, though, and soon Jaskier isn’t just dozing anymore.</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">__________________________</span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">Geralt watches Jaskier preform one of his original compositions at dinner. He’d seemed surprised that the only reason he was locked away during the evenings was to prevent him from meeting Ciri. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Well, if I’d known that I would’ve come clean much earlier. A dinner crowd is always preferable to the lunch crowd.” Geralt watches him move around the room, marveling at just how much energy he seems to contain. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">The harder he looks the more obvious it seems that he has fae blood within him. Now that they know what to look for they can all see the way his music effects the crowd. Jaskier isn’t charming them, or enchanting them, but his music holds a certain childlike joy that is difficult to recreate or express. Geralt isn’t sure if that’s related to Jaskier or his majicks, or if it’s an aspect of Jaskier that comes from his majicks. Either way, it’s still beautiful. He still watches Jaskier flit about, bare feet slapping down on cool stone, breathing in the scent of him, listening to his voice fill the room. Jaskier is right, the dinner crowd does seem to enjoy his work better than the lunch crowd despite it being the same exact group of men. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Eskel.” Geralt can feel Eskel pause in his eating to look to him, but it takes him a moment longer to turn to face him. Looking away from Jaskier is difficult, especially since he’s tasted him now. He wants to lift him over his shoulder and take him back to his room. Spread him out on his bed. Enjoy his scent, his skin, his touch more. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Geralt.” Geralt can hear Eskel’s smirk and he knows that he caught the way his lust poured out of him for a moment. Geralt frowns and finally turns to face Eskel who’s making a horrible show of hiding his smirk behind his goblet. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I need a medallion made. Smaller than ours, but still easily identifiable. No need to charm it to detect majicks.” Eskel puts his drink down slowly, eyes locked with Geralt. They both know exactly what he’s asking. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“You’re sure?” Geralt nods, clenching and unclenching his fist. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“He will want to leave sooner or later. I’d prefer it if people could see who he belonged to. It will be enough to protect him from most harm.” Eskel leans in close, keeping his voice low. There’s no real point, they’re surrounded by witchers who all could hear their every word. Still, most of them would try not to, especially when they both make such a show of keeping this conversation as private as possible. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I can smell him on you.” Eskel smirks, looking like he’s trying not to laugh, and Geralt sighs, says nothing. After a moment Eskel’s amusement fades and he sits back into his chair, leaning his cheek into his open palm, tracing the shape of his scar with his fingers. It’s endearing. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“Something like that will bring him just as much trouble as it will prevent it. Worse trouble than what he’d attract on his own.” Geralt keeps his mouth shut. He knew that already. Eskel knows that he knew that already. Eskel smirks, though. “I’ll make the chain long enough for him to tuck it into his shirts. Melitele knows we’ll never get him to button them up properly.” Geralt chuckles, shaking his head. </span>
</p><p class="p6">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t even know why he bothers wearing shirts.” Eskel laughs, too. The entire keep seems to appreciate Jaskier’s presence, and his music, not least of all Ciri. She’s watching Jaskier with unbridled joy in her eyes, clapping along. </span>
</p><p class="p5"> </p><p class="p7">
  <span class="s1">__________________________</span>
</p><p class="p1">They still haven’t spoken about it. Jaskier still isn’t sure what exactly it is that they’re doing here, but he’s not willing to ask either. Not yet at least. They’re in his room now. Geralt knocked on his door a few hours ago, long after dinner concluded. Jaskier has been almost asleep by then, and he’d picked up his lock picking kit before he remembered he didn’t need it anymore.</p><p class="p1">Geralt kissed him the second the door was open. And Jaskier didn’t get much of a chance to sleep after that.</p><p class="p1">“Ciri, she.” Geralt ‘hm’s and Jaskier tucks his hand under his chin and looks up at Geralt blearily. He’s covered in a new thin sheen of sweat, come still leaking out of him, and he thinks if anyone didn’t notice the mark on his neck at dinner they’ll certainly notice the new ones tomorrow.</p><p class="p1">“Not exactly the type of pillow talk I’d expected.” Geralt huffs and Jaskier smiles because getting him flustered is cute. He’s cute. “Go on, then. Ciri.” Geralt’s hand is just barely brushing up his spine in a mindless back and forth. It makes Jaskier’s skin prickle in goosebumps, makes him shiver a little. It tingles. It feels nice. Comforting.</p><p class="p1">“She can’t know. About this. Not yet. Not until the curse.” Jaskier uses his free hand to trace the shape of Geralt’s lower lip. It’s kissed a bright red, and from this angle he gets to stare at this unnaturally sharp canines. He wonders if he’ll bleed if he presses his thumb into it, how much pressure would he need to apply to break the skin? Is he holding back when he bites him? Is that why he licks over all of them so carefully, so ensure that he didn’t break skin? When Jaskier’s certain that Geralt isn’t going to finish that sentence anytime soon Jaskier answers him.</p><p class="p1">“I understand Geralt. This can be a really confusing situation for a kid, especially one like Ciri who just desperately wants her family back together. I don’t mind, we’ll be careful, we can hide this. Just tell me what you want to do.” It’s not a hard promise to make at all. He could press him, ask him what they’ll do after the curse, but he knows what Geralt meant by that, too.</p><p class="p1">There’s no way of knowing how Jaskier will feel once the curse breaks. For now at least it seems that they’ve both agreed to enjoy what they have together while they can. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.</p><p class="p1">“Will you stay my friend? After the curse breaks?” Geralt nods, eyes closed. Jaskier keeps tracing the shape of his mouth, marveling about how soft his lips are. They’re a perfect shape, he never wants to forget this beautiful shade of ‘kiss bruised’ red.</p><p class="p1">“Will you?” Jaskier lifts his hand to smooth out that lovely crinkle Geralt gets inbetween his eyebrows when he worries. He gets to do that now. It’s a good feeling.</p><p class="p1">“Of course. I won’t regret this. No matter what happens. I’m glad for it.” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s chest and resettles himself onto his chest. He rises and falls his each of his slow, quiet breaths. “I’m not squishing you?” He whispers. Geralt doesn’t answer, though, and he smiles.</p><p class="p1">By the time Jaskier wakes up in the morning he’s alone. He allows himself to feel a moment of anxiety before letting it go.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p4">
  <span class="s1">__________________________</span>
</p><p class="p1">“I’d say you have maybe two years? Three if you’re really lucky.” Yennefer drums her fingers on her desk, staring at him like he’s a very interesting bug. He doesn’t know if she likes bugs, he hopes she does.</p><p class="p1">“That’s a lot longer than I expected you to say.” Yennefer shrugs but Jaskier’s gotten better at reading her now. She’s not nearly as unbothered by him as she wants him to think she is. They’re friends. It makes him laugh sometimes, knowing that she likes him. She’s very fucking scary and she’s his friend.</p><p class="p1">“You’re not human anymore. My original assumptions needed to be reassessed after that little discovery.” Jaskier sits back in his chair, wonders distantly if she’s going to offer the vodka or if he’s going to have to ask for it, and chews lightly on his callouses.</p><p class="p1">He’s going to have to deal with this curse sooner or later. He’s going to have to visit the fae. And what’s worse, the deeper into spring they get the more restless he feels. He’s been here too long. He’s bouncing his foot, he’s fucking Geralt with a, frankly, surprising amount of stamina, he’s struggling to write. He’s never been one to be kept, to be caged, and he’s spending more and more of his time outside of the Keep, wandering the grounds.</p><p class="p1">The grass is tall, and sweet. There are wildflowers, real wildflowers, and it makes him ache. He wants to walk dirt roads, stare up at the stars, and meet new people whose names he doesn’t know and whose smiles he has to figure out how to bring out.</p><p class="p1">“Tell me again why I can’t just walk up to the closest area where the veil is thin and ask for help?” Yennefer rolls her eyes and levels him with a cold glare. She may like him but she’s not nearly as immune to his antics as Geralt is. He knows that Yennefer still only puts up with his dramatics. Geralt, at least, seems to be amused by them.</p><p class="p1">She doesn’t answer him. He didn’t really think she would. She’s already repeated herself twice now, getting her to do it a third time would have been a miracle. Honestly, if she did answer, then it would have shocked him into an early grave.</p><p class="p1">“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Jaskier smiles, shrugging, trying to pretend that he isn’t lost in the sea of his own thoughts. He’s becoming maudlin. He’s spent too much time packed away from the world.</p><p class="p1">“I’d like your help with something.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. eleven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Get ready for some angst folks! I promise there's a happy ending ;) <br/>Only two more chapters left folks! Wow, I'm just shaking with excitement. Thank you guys so fucking much for sticking around and loving this fic as much as I've loved writing it. You guys are amazing and supportive and I just would not have been able to complete this properly without all your encouragements! <br/>This chapter is very Jaskier POV heavy because the next chapter is gonna be Geralt POV heavy jsyk</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The days pass by in a blur. Their agreement to keep this from Ciri bled into the rest of their time together, too. According to Geralt every witcher will know regardless but as long as they seem like they’re trying to hide it they’ll keep their mouths shut in an attempt to respect their wishes. It’s actually quite kind of them, Jaskier thinks, even Lambert doesn’t seem to have anything to say about it just yet.</p><p class="p1">They spend every night together since that day. If Geralt doesn’t collect him before he goes to the peace treaties then he can rely on Geralt slipping into his rooms. Jaskier has lost all ability to resist reaching out and touching him at any given opportunity. So much so that when he’s finally invited to come down to their rooms and offer Ciri some proper lessons on her clavichord Jaskier keeps his hands occupied the entire time by either holding onto a mug of tea that’s long passed cold or fiddling with a pencil or carefully focused on the keys themselves.</p><p class="p1">Teaching Ciri in earnest is a special treat all it’s own. She seems to burn brighter than ever before now, sitting beside him on the stool and showing off her own version of the elvish duet. The added layer of expression that the clavichord provides her makes the song all the more touching, and seeing Ciri’s take is incredible. As the song progresses she speeds it up but keeps it soft, gentle, incorporating a sense of desperation that his rendition lacked. She’s incredible. Almost a savant. When he brought out his lute to accompany her Jaskier felt as if he had hung the stars with his own hands from the way she looked at him.</p><p class="p1">As good as secrets may be for younglings it seemed to Jaskier that Ciri did much better without the weight of them on her shoulders.</p><p class="p1">“Good, it’s a ridiculous notion anyway, secrets being good for kids.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to lean against Geralt on the couch. He doesn’t bother to sit on his side anymore now that Geralt has confirmed she’s asleep and Jaskier knows he’ll warn him if she wakes up.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know why you don’t believe me. It helps them grow, like a trial run at being an adult. It gives them a chance to make their own choices independent of adult supervision, it can be very enlightening for them.” It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes and Jaskier chuckles at the sight of his exasperation. At this point Jaskier’s not even certain if he’s just spouting bullshit himself, he’s just enjoying the look on Geralt’s face.</p><p class="p1">“Oh? And what great knowledge were you enlightened with when you handled your secrets?”</p><p class="p1">“That I very much needed some time of adult supervision.” Jaskier laughs into his cup, waiting for Geralt to stop jostling him around with his own laughter to risk taking another sip.</p><p class="p1">“I always thought that the nobleborn children were never without supervision?” Jaskier shrugs, scooting down lower so he can rest his head against Geralt’s flank more comfortably. The room is awash with an orange glow, candles everywhere to make up for the lack of windows. Jaskier loves the natural sunlight of the world, misses its presence here sometimes. Now that the days have become longer, the sun brighter, the air sweeter, he’s been spending his days lounging in the spots of sunlight he can find.</p><p class="p1">“I had plenty of supervision. Too much of it, maybe. Just never the right type of supervision.” Jaskier stares at the clavichord and he thinks he knows Geralt well enough by now to know that he’s staring into the fire. He doesn’t feel the need to turn his head and check. “When you watch her, she knows it’s because you’ll keep her safe. When I was watched it was because I knew my every mistake would be cataloged, remembered, weaponized.” Geralt’s hand moves from the back of the couch to run through his hair, comforting and encouraging. It sends a series of wonderful ingles down his spine.</p><p class="p1">He brings in a deep breath, forcing memories of swift hands and red welts on the back of his palms from the rods favored by the horrid women in his temple school away. “Not to imply that you don’t scald her properly when needed, but you also see and praise her successes in equal measure. It’s good. She’s learned that she doesn’t like to keep secrets. I wouldn’t have wanted to either, if I had that.” Geralt’s fingers scratch at his scalp and it helps to settle Jaskier. Geralt chews his nails, the evidence is obvious even if Jaskier hasn’t managed to catch him in the act. Still, the scratching feels nice and he lets out a gentle hum to encourage him to continue.</p><p class="p1">“And here I was, stupidly thinking you were untouched by the violence of this world.” Geralt’s words are spoken kindly but the idea is so absurd that it makes Jaskier laugh, shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“Who among the living could ever make that claim?” Jaskier leans away to set his cup down on the table. He’s only drunk half but he’s held it in his hands twice as long and he knows by now he won’t be finishing it.</p><p class="p1">“Good point.” Geralt presses a kiss to the crown of his head once he settles back into his place pressed against his side.</p><p class="p1">It doesn’t take long for them to fall into bed after that. Jaskier is simply insatiable these days. Skin always feverish, body full of a restless energy. He needs something, and while he sex is great, it’s still not really soothing the itch. He wakes up restless. He falls asleep slowler despite the physical exhaustion. He thinks it might be because of the curse’s effect on him, the chaos trying to find a way of escaping him.</p><p class="p1">Everytime he touches Geralt it sends a wave of pleasure through him and he can’t help but chase after that. Their sex is intoxicating, it provides a high he’s simply not gotten before. Still, as much as he really fucking loves it, he misses the simple pleasure of human flesh under his hands, too. Malleable, warm skin, gooseflesh, the every day pleasure of blunt nails scratching down his stomach. He’ll enjoy the one benefit of this curse while he has them, but he’s looking forward to when he can reach out and touch and not have to bite back a moan with the sudden and overwhelming wave of sensation. It makes him desperate, makes their sex desperate, in a way that he’s enjoyed before but never exclusively. He feels robbed just as much as he does blessed.</p><p class="p1">The curse ruins him in new ways everyday, Jaskier thinks bitterly.</p><p class="p1">Geralt carries him down the steps so Jaskier can spend his time sucking a lovely bruise into his skin, very high on his neck. Jaskier has never once told Geralt to keep the bruises he gifts him with in areas that can be hidden because he wants them to be seen. It’s always been his favorite part about having them, the showing them off.</p><p class="p1">The first few times they did this however, Jaskier was careful to keep his love bites below the neckline but it proved to be an utter waste of his time. Geralt’s body healed so well and so quickly that no matter how hard he tried they were gone within the hour. The absolute bastard.</p><p class="p1">“I must say, big fan of the muscles.” Jaskier brushes his teeth against the mark, eliciting a beautiful sound somewhere between a hiss and a laugh and it lets Jaskier know it’s time to move on to another area of Geralt’s unmarked neck.</p><p class="p1">“Hadn’t noticed.” Jaskier can feel when they’ve made it to the bottom of the stairs because they’ve stopped bouncing with each step and also because he’s being pressed into the wall. He moans, bucking his hips to test his boundaries and yes. Yes, he’s well and truly pinned against the wall. He won’t be escaping this hold anytime soon.</p><p class="p1">“Gods, I love it when you do this.” Jaskier’s hands wedge inbetween them, start working on the buttons of Geralt’s trousers. There have been very few times that Jaskier’s been manhandled like this, even at sixteen he was long limbed and not small enough to be so easily maneuvered. It easily got him harder than the pleasure of their mere touch.</p><p class="p1">Geralt keeps one hand under Jaskier’s thigh just in case, holding him up, which only leaves him one hand to do anything useful with so it’s up to Jaskier to get them as naked as they need to be to finish their first round. Geralt seems more than content to just kiss him and palm his cock through his pants, and while it is driving him absolutely wild and may even end in him coming in his trousers like a desperate, horny teenager, Jaskier is more than determined to get fucked against this wall. It takes him little to no time at all to push Geralt’s trousers down to his thighs, freeing his cock. Geralt isn’t fully hard yet but he’s certainly beginning to thicken up and Jaskier has every intention of getting him there as quickly as possible.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier feels like he’s being guided on instinct alone. When they touch like this, Geralt’s body pressed against his, his tongue in his mouth, his hands on his cock, fuck that feels wonderful as Jaskier tries to buck his hips into Geralt’s hand, he feels utterly incapable of rational thought. All he knows is that he needs more, wants more, craves it. Right now he genuinely feels that if he doesn’t get Geralt’s cock in his ass soon he may combust. Has it gotten more intense? Gods, he thinks it must have.</p><p class="p1">“Geralt, please.” He begs into Geralt’s mouth, trying desperately to pull the buttons free on his own trousers while Geralt’s hand stays unmoved, doing a very good job of jacking him off through his trousers. Jaskier isn’t willing to let go of Geralt’s cock either, so they’re both left one handed in their endeavors. At this rate Jaskier really will have to come in his trousers and once that happens he’ll be tossed onto the bed and he’ll be so ecstatic to finally get fucked that he won’t be able to even remember how desperately he wanted to get fucked against the wall. “Please, please, please.” Jaskier discovered very quickly that begging with his sweet, high pitched, moaning voice could get Geralt to do damn near anything he asked for. “You feel incredible, darling. Just, hng, just wonderful. Fuck me? Please fuck me. I need you to fucking fuck me.”</p><p class="p1">Jaskier begins to kiss him inbetween each please, stroking his cock in the same rhythm. Geralt was fully hard now and whimpering with each desperate plea Jaskier made. Finally, fucking finally, Jaskier manages to get his trousers open enough that he can pull his own gods damned cock out because Geralt certainly didn’t seem at all interested in doing that anytime soon.</p><p class="p1">The second Geralt’s hand touches his bare cock he slams his head back into the wall and nearly yells out his moan. Geralt has a hand on his mouth in an instant, muffling him while he also strokes him through his orgasm. It may be the thrill of the realization that he’s being held to this wall purely by Geralt’s sheer force of will and his own shaking thighs, or the impact of his head against the stone, or even the sheer intensity of his orgasm, but one moment Jaskier’s upright and fully clothed and the next he’s on his stomach, with no trousers at all anymore, and two fingers in his ass.</p><p class="p1">He lets out a long, low, keening whine and fucks into those fingers as best he can. It’s usually not this easy to get him to this state of fucked into silence but there are a lot of factors working against Jaskier right now. Geralt has one hand pressing him down into the mattress between his shoulderblades while he mouths lazily at his spine. Every brush of his lips makes him shiver. He feels overheated, sweat pooling in the dimples of his ass, behind his knees, making his hair curl at the base of his neck and stick to his forehead. He may be nonverbal right now but he’s certainly not quiet, moaning and panting hard. Geralt doesn’t bother with working him open slowly and Jaskier feels downright sopping from the amount of oil Geralt’s poured onto his hands. Jaskier can hear every squelch of his fingers fucking into him. It’s the hottest fucking sound he can hear.</p><p class="p1">All Jaskier really can do now is hang on for dear life. He’s trembling with his pleasure, lost to it entirely. He trusts Geralt to take good care of him and the second this bloody curse is out of him he’s going to spend an entire month lavishing him with attention and praise and reduce Geralt to the exact state that Jaskier himself is in. He has that intention everytime they start fooling around but the curse just robs him of his usual finesse.</p><p class="p1">His cock starts to thicken up, twitching to go again already, when Geralt sinks in a third finger. He hopes that Geralt won’t torture him with a fourth finger because he knows from experience that Geralt has every intention of fucking him through one orgasm right into the next. Jaskier thrusts back with the clear intent to fuck himself on Geralt’s hand now, setting a faster rhythm than the one Geralt’s set and Geralt moans, biting at the swell of his ass where it meets his thigh and it only makes Jaskier’s hips stutter, fucking back into his fingers that much harder. Jaskier shivers under the attention, his cock hanging fat and heavy between his legs, already leaking.</p><p class="p1">“P-please.” Jaskier bites into the cotton sheets, suddenly desperate for something, fucking anything, in his mouth, and whines when Geralt pulls his fingers out of him.</p><p class="p1">“Shh, shh.” Geralt presses one last kiss to his spine before he sits up, pulling Jaskier by his hips, moving him when he wants or maybe just showing off how fucking easy it is for him to do that Jaskier isn’t in his right mind enough to parse it out. He gasping, writhing, pulling at the sheets desperately for something, a touch, he needs to be touched, and he shakes when he feels Geralt drape himself over his back. It soothes him while also igniting a fire in his belly, making in impossible for him not to fuck himself on Geralt’s cock when he tries to carefully sink into him. It punches a groan out of Geralt when he takes him so easily and has Jaskier gasping and panting and rolling his hips back even more frantically to get Geralt’s cock as deep inside of him as possible as quickly as possible.</p><p class="p1">Gods he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to just how fucking deep Geralt is. Geralt’s head is resting in the space inbetween his shoulder blades where his hand was but minutes ago and he’s got one hand draped over Jaskier’s hand where he’s gripping the sheets for dear life and the other one is loosely wrapped around Jaskier’s throat. It sends an ice cold shiver of shock down his spine, has his fingers tingling with surprise, and oh fuck he very much likes it. Geralt doesn’t squeeze, just holds him like that, tilting his head up just far enough that the angle make it just a little bit harder to breathe.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier sets the pace, fucking himself on Geralt’s cock for the longest time. It has his thighs shaking. He thinks Geralt is just going to let him do this until he makes himself come on Geralt’s cock. That thought just has Jaskier’s rhythm stuttering, becoming erratic. He’s so close. Fuck, he’s so close, but he can’t let go of the sheets long enough to touch his own cock. If he could just get two good, hard jerks to his cock he knows he’d be coming. His arms are trembling and he can’t let go of the sheets. He doesn’t know why exactly, he may not be in his right mind. He presses against Geralt’s hand on his neck to feel the pressure of it, to feel his breath get that much more cut off. It makes his head tingle. He’s grinding on Geralt’s cock, barely pulling back before he’s fucking himself down on his cock again, reveling in just how fucking full he is.</p><p class="p1">Geralt bites down on his shoulder, hard, and that’s what does it. Geralt releases his neck so he can pull in deep, full breaths as he pants and whines through his second orgasm. His arms are shaking. He feels boneless. The only reason he’s still got his knees under him is because Geralt’s holding his hips up as he fucks into him. Jaskier’s face hits the pillow in rhythm with Geralt’s thrusts and Jaskier doesn’t fight it. He’s still shaking through his aftershocks as Geralt chases his own pleasure, using him, fingers digging into the meat of his hips. He knows he’ll have bruises, he looks forward to tracing them in the morning.</p><p class="p1">It’s a lot to take. Geralt’s fucking into him jut as much as he’s using his grip on Jaskier’s hips to fuck him into his own cock. He’s sensitive, and overwhelmed, and he can feel tears prickling on his lashes. He doesn’t know if his vision has actually blacked out for a moment or if he’s just incapable of opening his eyes right now but either way he thinks it’s only making everything that much more overwhelming. It feels incredible, just this side of painful.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t stop, don’t. Please, fuck.” Jaskier’s voice is thin, barely even a whisper, and he’s slobbering into the sheets. He can’t fuck back into Geralt’s thrusts, can’t even curl his fingers into the sheets. He’s just taking it, riding out Geralt’s lust. Wave after wave of pleasure pours down his spine. He’s not going to be able to come again tonight, he really doesn’t think he’ll even be able to get hard again. Still, Geralt fucks into him. Still, his mind is an endless stream of silent begging for it. More. Harder. Don’t stop, please please please. He thinks he might pass out actually, still trembling from his last orgasm. He can tell that Geralt is close. He doesn’t want Geralt to come yet. He wants to feel Geralt come inside him, fill him up, fuck. He wants it but not yet.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier comes to, bleary, when Geralt grunts, laying his body over his once more, as he comes. Jaskier isn’t sure when he passed out, or how long he’s been gone, but he doesn’t think it could have really been that long. His cock is thick, half hard, trying desperately to rally for a third time. Geralt is hot, and sweaty, and his weight is a soothing comfort. He’s still fucking Jaskier, but his thrusts are shallow now, mostly just grinding his cock into him, fucking his own come as deep inside of him as possible. It makes Jaskier shiver, and moan, and bite his own lip. Gods, he loves the way it feels. Geralt mouths at the base of his neck, breathing hard, and nosing his hairline.</p><p class="p1">“I can smell it on you.” Jaskier snorts, delirious a little, and turns his head to try and see his face.</p><p class="p1">“Smell what?” His tongue feels heavy, his throat is a little sore. He’s not used to words being so difficult to push out of his mouth and it’s a heady experience, being fucked into silence. Jaskier thinks he must be talking about the sweat they’re both drenched in. Or maybe the spunk, or the oil. The whole room probably stinks with their sex. There’s really an abundance of scents to be inhaling right now.</p><p class="p1">“Your lust.” Geralt runs his nose down the line of his neck and then licks back up the track he’s laid out for himself. It’s something that would have made him sneer uncomfortably before but now he’s still too far buried under the fog of his lust, lost to the pleasure of Geralt’s touch. His tongue is rough, almost like a cat’s, and it tickles some. Can Geralt taste his lust, too?</p><p class="p1">“My <em>lust</em>?” It’s funny the way everything is funny right now. Geralt’s soothing touches helps to settle his restless need to. To something. Something.</p><p class="p1">“Hm. Smells like pepper. And honey.” Geralt bites down on his neck and Jaskier shivers, moaning and leaning into the sensation. It feels so nice. Everything feels so nice. His body is floating somewhere else, a million miles away.</p><p class="p1">“You can smell that?” Geralt licks at the indents he’s left behind with his teeth, nodding.</p><p class="p1">“I can smell your lust. Your anxiety. Your fear, not that you’ve ever really been afraid around me. Happiness, too. Your’s is warmth, like sunshine, bright and so strong I can almost taste it.” Jaskier hums, too distracted by the way Geralt’s lips brushing against his skin feels to really bother putting together a more comprehensive answer right now. Geralt spends a lingering, slow moment sucking a lazy mark onto his skin, probably drinking in the emotions he can smell pouring out of him. It’s certainly an interesting gift, he wonders idly exactly how exposed he is in this Keep of witchers.</p><p class="p1">They both hiss when Geralt finally pulls out and he’s careful to keep their bodies touching when he falls onto his back beside him. Jaskier crawls into his side so he’s half flopped over him, already shivering from the stark loss of physical contact. It’s good though. He’s good. He can still feel that empty ache in his body despite touching so much of him and it confuses him.</p><p class="p1">It feels like the more he indulges in this, the quicker it intensifies. He was promised two years, maybe even three, but the reality doesn’t feel so generous.</p><p class="p1">He can feel Geralt’s heartbeat against his cheek, rising up and down with his every breath and it’s comforting and exciting. Jaskier feels like his heart might burst and Geralt’s heartbeat feels like he’s barely even broken out into a light jog. It’s fascinating. He allows the gentle sound to lull his mind, quiet his thoughts, as much as they can be quieted these days. He taps his fingers onto Geralt’s skin in an improvised rhythm and it helps some to release this restlessness still plaguing him.</p><p class="p1">“You can smell all that on me?” He finally manages to ask, though it’s probably a stupid fucking question since Geralt’s already told him that he can. Jaskier doesn’t waste the mental energy in beating himself up for it though, he’s just had two incredible orgasms it’s to be expected. Geralt, surprise surprise, only ‘hm’s in reply. “Okay, yes, obviously. But like, on me or just everyone?” That’s a much better question he thinks. He pats himself on the back for that one. Solid.</p><p class="p1">“Well, everyone, but it’s different with you. You’re so open with your emotions, I don’t have to guess at them at all.” Jaskier’s not exactly entirely sure what Geralt means by that. His pillow talk needs a little help but it’s working on him if he’s honest. He feels comforted by the sound of his voice, the ease with which he speaks to him now.</p><p class="p1">“You’d have to guess?” Jaskier looses the last two words in a yawn, and once he’s recovered he just mumbles them without bothering to repeat his whole sentence. Sleep is already pulling him down. His body aches, pleasant and well used. He’s thankful that Geralt doesn’t make him get up and walk back to his own rooms after he fucks him within an inch of his life like this. He wouldn’t hold it against him but he’s glad for it all the same. He enjoys waking up in the middle of the night, thirsty as hell and curled up against his chest. </p><p class="p1">“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between fear and anger if I don’t know their usual scent. Heartbeat picks up, body temperature spikes, pupils blow wide. They usually go together in my experience. Anger and lust, too. They all seem to mix together for most humans. Yours are so clear, so distinct. I haven’t had to guess once.” Jaskier’s listening but he knows he’s not doing a great job of looking the part. He lets out a hum as his mind tries sluggishly to provide a response but he can’t really think of anything too coherent.</p><p class="p1">“Weird.” Geralt’s quiet for long enough that Jaskier’s almost full asleep. He thinks, barely even a thought and more of a feeling, that he could have handled that better. Said something … better.</p><p class="p1">“It’s good. Is what I mean.” Jaskier pulls his eyes open with a considerable amount of effort, looking up at Geralt in confusion. Were they having a conversation? What was he talking about?</p><p class="p1">“Huh?” Geralt looks worried a little, his eyebrows are doing that worried thing and he’s looking at him but not in the eye.</p><p class="p1">“Your scent. I like it.” It takes Jaskier a minute to catch up, to figure out what he’s talking about, and when he does he laughs a little. Too tired to make it a real laugh and he presses a sloppy kiss to Geralt’s sweaty chest.</p><p class="p1">“Oh. That. Thank you?” Jaskier’s smiling but he can see that Geralt’s still a little distressed and he tries to shake the sleep off so he can be a better person to his bedpartner for a few minutes longer. “What I mean to say is, I’m glad you like the smell of me. Can you smell when someone is lying? That’d be a neat trick.” It does some good, has Geralt huffing out a smile and shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“Only if they’re a shit liar.” Jaskier nods slowly, face pinched in sleepiness that he’s trying very hard to pass off as sage wisdom.</p><p class="p1">“Then it’s no use at all. I can smell a shit liar and I’ve got none of your fancy mutations.” He gives up and smashes his face back into Geralt’s chest, exhausted, and mumbles his way through the rest of sentence. “Though I’m sure it’s a handy tool when trying to find a willing bedpartner. Cuts through a lot of the flirting bullshit. Maybe even saves you some wasted coin.” Jaskier smiles when he feels Geralt’s near silent chuckle and that’s his last thought when he slips into sleep finally. Making Geralt laugh is a particular type of joy that Jaskier’s never quite felt before.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Jaskier walks down long corridors. There are no windows and he has to brush his hands along the walls to feel where he’s going. It’s pitch black. It smells of fresh dirt. The walls feel soft, crumbling from his touch and landing on his bare feet. He tries very hard to keep his breathing even, the bitter taste of panic ever present at the back of his throat. His heart feels tight, as if it’s being held in a fist. His hands begin to shake and it only loosens more of the dirt walls. He can’t risk not touching them because he will occasionally come across a point where he must choose to go left or right.</p><p class="p1">Those are the worst moments for him. When he has to make a decision that he has no hope of ever mending. He knows, somehow, that there’s a way out, and he’s walking towards it, but these moments of choice hinge on him making the right choice. He tries in vain to build a map in his mind but he’s been walking for hours already, he’s already made so many choices that he can’t possibly ever backtrack properly to fix a mistake. No that he would even be capable of keeping track of his mistakes down here.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier walks on. The dirt seems to only soften the deeper he goes. Soon his every step is met with dampness. Soon that dampness becomes a bloom of cool water pushed to the surface with the weight of his steps.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s teeth chatter with the chill seeping into his bones. It licks that the hem of his trousers, bleeds up his pants as the water only gets higher and higher. He can smell the mud he’s walking in, hear the gentle splash of the puddle. He’s buried alive, forced to walk this endless, terrifying corridor, and now he’s bloody freezing to boot.</p><p class="p1">He’s used to this, has had to walk these bloody nightmare halls a hundred times before, maybe more, but the panic still clutches at his chest, speeds his heart. He tires to keep his breathing at a regular rhythm, tricking his body into preventing the panic attack that it looming over him. It’s not a solution and won’t hold for long, but if he’s lucky he’ll be awake before it happens.</p><p class="p1">Why? Why does he have to suffer through this utterly terrifying dream? He’s freezing, he’s miserable, his legs hurt, and he knows he’ll still ache in the morning. This dream is as much of a curse on his physical body as it is in his mind, and he’s suddenly feels an overwhelming flash of anger. All of his mounting fear is suddenly twisted into a pure rage.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck off!” Jaskier screams. He turns to where one of his hands is pressed against the wall and begins to claw at it. The dirt is soft and wet and he can hear handfuls of it plopping into the water around him. He doesn’t stop screaming the entire time he’s clawing at the wall. He’s never clawed at the walls before. Maybe he has. He’s dreaming there’s no telling what he has or hasn’t done. He’s not really thinking too clearly, he’s just desperate. His mind tends to chase it’s tail when he’s panicking, he can recognize that, he’s officially going off the deep end. It’s a dream dammit, he knows it’s a dream, and yet he’s panicking.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier gasps. He can feel the light in the room, coming from the fire but his eyes are closed so he can’t see it. His hands are fisted in a sheet, not mud, and the chill he feels is from the cooling sweat on his body. He’s breathing hard and there’s something on the base of his neck. A heavy weight, a familiar weight, warm and wonderful.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier relaxes fully into the bed, hands opening up slowly. He feels a full body ache, like a cold. Jaskier groans, lifting his hand to press grasp at Geralt’s wrist, holding his hand and keeping him from pulling it away from him too soon. Jaskier waits until his breathing has evened out and wets his lips, turning to face him. Geralt’s closer than he expected, their noses bumping. He can feel Geralt breathing, the hot puff of his breath tickling his cheek.</p><p class="p1">“Hey.” Jaskier smiles, a little embarrassed, a little thankful to not have to suffer waking up alone. He opens his eyes but he still can’t see for shit. An outline, shadows mostly, and a dull barely there orange glow on the wall.</p><p class="p1">“Hey.” Geralt’s voice is thick with sleep.</p><p class="p1">“Did I wake you?” Jaskier blinks his eyes, squeezing them shut, to try and blink away some of the sleep. His tongue feels heavy, his throat dry. Geralt doesn’t move.</p><p class="p1">“You were whimpering. Like you wanted to yell, but couldn’t.” Jaskier frowns, typical. His nightmares have been coming and going his whole life, it was only a matter of time before they started up again. Probably doesn’t help that he’s under the earth right now. Filled with restless energy. He wants to escape but he doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s arms.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry.” Geralt’s fingers start kneading his chest, not dissimilar to a cat, and Jaskier can only assume it’s meant to be comforting. He lets out a huff of silent laughter, amused by how much his witcher is less the wolf of his title and more like a cat. It becomes more obvious the longer they spend time together. If Geralt noticed he doesn’t ask.</p><p class="p1">“What were you dreaming about?”</p><p class="p1">“I was buried alive but <em>also</em> drowning.” Good enough. It’s how the dream ends. Eventually. He doesn’t usually make it to the drowning bit, but he doesn’t need to. It’s fairly obvious. When he’s awake he’s able to think about turning around, going back the way he came, trying again, but it’s never an option in his dreams. The digging was new. Interesting.</p><p class="p1">“Seems excessive.” That startles a laugh out of him.</p><p class="p1">“It does, yeah.” Jaskier feels a completely irrational need to check his nails, dig the dirt out from under them. Restraining his hands is easy enough, especially when he has one wrapped around Geralt’s wrist. The vibration he feels spread to his entire chest, even down to his hips and his shoulders. It’s so much. The curse is getting more intense after all. Yen did say that one day it would hurt. With two years left to go it seems like the mere touch of Geralt would result in a broken bone. Maybe that’s how this story ends. Falling into the arms of his lover only for his very touch to shatter him. It’s poetic at least. There’s a song there. Somewhere.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s hand moves, sliding through his loose hold easily enough, to push the hair off of his forehead. Jaskier can feel the sweat that’s plastered to his skin, can feel Geralt smearing it around. It’s such a simple, fond gesture. It makes him settle fully, let go of the memory, the sensation, of his dream. He’s dreamt it before, most likely will again, but he’s never been so easily and quickly brought down from that particular terror.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s fingers continue to trace unknowable shapes on his forehead, even outline his eyebrows. He doesn’t want Geralt to stop until he’s back to sleep once more it’s so wonderful an experience.</p><p class="p1">“This bloody curse ruins your touch.” Geralt’s hand stills, fingers leaving his skin. “No, no don’t stop. It’s lovely, it’s just.” Jaskier’s tired and his head starts to ache the moment Geralt stops touching him so his thoughts feel a little scattered. Gently, Geralt’s fingers start to touch him again and he sighs, relieved. “Skin on skin, the warmth, the. The. I don’t know how to describe it. Just, flesh under my hands. Malleable. Living. The curse ruins that. I miss it. Touch that feels like touch.” Geralt’s quiet for a moment and Jaskier’s preparing an apology, or maybe another monologue about it, he hasn’t decided if he’s giving up on this talking point yet.</p><p class="p1">“So, it’s pleasurable, but you don’t like it.” Jaskier huffs. Leave it to Geralt to boil it down to it’s bare facts, no poetry involved.</p><p class="p1">“The long and the short of it.” He feels safe. He’s glad that Geralt was here to wake him. Comfort him. He’s never been one to reject pleasure before but this type of pleasure has it’s own downsides. The fact that he has no choice in it, no say over weather he can feel it or not, that’s the real reason he hates it. There are things in this world that inspire a similar effect at simple touch. Powders, creams, he’s experienced them but none of them effected him quite like this. It almost hurts already.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier’s eyes have adjusted now. It’s easier to make out the shape of Geralt’s face in the dark. He can see the shape of his mouth, the area where his nose is. The white of his eyes help to distinguish where his eyes actually are, the black of his pupil just barely identifiable. If he stares long enough he’ll probably be able to see it.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s hair is everywhere, really. Fanned out. Jaskier smiles and pushes it out of his face, over his shoulder. It’s still soft. Beautiful. It picks up some of the orange glow from the fire. “Do witchers have nightmares?” They’re speaking quietly he realizes. Half whispered. Sleepy. It’s intimate, makes the room around them feel much smaller. It’s almost like they’re the only two people that exist in the entire world and the world itself has forgotten to exist, too. He has Geralt all to himself, all his. Jaskier bites his bottom lip and smiles around it. He doesn’t want to loose this. Not yet.</p><p class="p1">“It’s been known to happen.” Jaskier smirks at the evasion, pushes himself a little closer. Geralt’s face is almost impossible to see now but he can feel the heat of his body better. It sends a shiver down his body and despite how desperate he is to curl right up next to him he doesn’t. The curse. Their touch. It would be too much for him and he doesn’t want that. Not right now.</p><p class="p1">“What do you dream about, witcher?” Jaskier whispers outright now, raising an eyebrow to be especially mischievous now. He knows that even if he can’t see Geralt’s expression, Geralt can see his. The darkness isn’t unlike his dream. He can feel the world around him, but not see it. The fire, and the little light it does provide, makes it worse somehow. The shadows move, dance around, haunting. With Geralt so close, his touch so gentle and his voice so warm, the shadows are just that, shadows.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can feel sleep already beginning to pull on his edges, ready to reclaim him. He watches the form of Geralt and tries to keep his eyes open in the silence. He can’t hear Geralt’s soft snores so he knows the man is still awake, trying to wait him out. Geralt sighs.</p><p class="p1">“My Keep, falling around me. There was. An old friend. He had a few of his mages disguise themselves as him.” Jaskier’s eyes strain to see anything at all on his darkened face. Geralt’s voice is even, collected, neutral. “He wanted me to know.” Jaskier’s whole body feels alight with burning. His mind is flooding with questions, desperately curious.</p><p class="p1">“He was your friend?” Jaskier tries to keep his own voice in the same even neutrality that Geralt uses, and only fails spectacularly in his sleepiness. He sounds exactly as curious as he is. Geralt’s hand slides down his temple, to rest on his cheek. His wrist sits across his neck, that gentle and familiar pressure, and his arm across his chest. It’s warm, so warm.</p><p class="p1">“He was.” Jaskier bites at his lip once more, kneading the skin, buying himself some time to determine the next best question.</p><p class="p1">“The man who weaseled his way into Cintra and then your court?” Geralt ‘hm’s and Jaskier presses his lips together to hide his smile. He’s been burning with curiosity for this story for a long time now and he’s desperate to hear it.</p><p class="p1">“I see you’ve collected this story, too?”</p><p class="p1">“No. Just that one little bit. My sources weren’t willing to divulge more. You don’t have to tell me, but I’d love to hear it. I won’t repeat a word.” It’s so trusting, being given what he’s already given. That Geralt would admit to being hurt by a close friend. Well. It answers a few questions, doesn’t it? All of Geralt’s hesitations, and resistance. </p><p class="p1">“He was her father.” Jaskier sits up, leans his weight on his forearms, peering down at Geralt. He’s staring down at him, desperate to try and <em>see</em> something. He wants to roll his eyes, shake his head,<em> ha ha good one asshole</em>, but he doesn’t. Geralt is still. Geralt is silent. The weight of what he’s telling him sinks into his gut like a heavy stone.</p><p class="p1">“You’re serious.” Geralt sits up, twisting to press his back into the headboard, and Jaskier can see him better now that he’s actually in the glow of the fire. His pupils are huge, probably so he can see in the little light provided, and Jaskier wishes he had that particular gift. Jaskier twists his body to face him so he can look at Geralt without having to twist his neck uncomfortably.</p><p class="p1">“I am.” Jaskier squints his eyes, examining his face for any signs of a cruel joke. He believes him but it doesn’t ease that familiar skepticism.</p><p class="p1">“Her father died. With Pavetta. On that boat, four years ago.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s why he wanted his mages to look like him. To let me know that was a lie. That he was going after Cintra. He uh.” Geralt runs his hand over his chest, soothing himself, and Jaskier immediately puts a hand on his thigh when he sees it. Geralt sighs, thunking his head back on the headboard, scowling. “He killed her. On that boat. Ran off to Nilfgaard to take his rightful place. He’d used his time in Cintra to find people who would support him. Used the years he’d spent in my fucking Keep to attack us. Hit us where and how it would hurt the most.” It’s no surprise to him that this has been a closely kept secret. Even still, after the years this man has spent with his head rotting on a spike, he can see how much his actions still pain Geralt. Jaskier can understand why Geralt would bother to go out of his way to assert his version of events with that barker. The only attempt the Warlord of the South has ever made to make his reasoning behind his actions known. </p><p class="p1">“You loved them.” Geralt looks miserable the second Jaskier says it, and he knows it’s true. It surprises him some, to know that he’s right about this. The pieces are all falling into place. All of Geralt’s hesitancy, all of his running away and coming back and running away, over and over. Then, before he has the chance to allow his mind to flood with questions about that particular experience, it hits him like a ton of bricks. “Does Ciri know?” He feels ill. His body feels very cold.</p><p class="p1">Geralt wraps an arm around his shoulders and Jaskier slides down to fit his head into the crook of his arm, pressing against his side. It’s not the most comfortable position he’s ever been in, but it’s safe and it seems to help Geralt relax some, too.</p><p class="p1">“She does.” Jaskier has never hated a man so quickly and so throughly before. It hits him all at once, sudden and fierce.</p><p class="p1">“I can see why you put his head on a fucking spike.” Geralt huffs out a laugh, resting his cheek on the top of Jaskier’s head. They’re quiet for a long time and Jaskier watches the shadows play on the blanket. The desire to sleep hasn’t left, and now, here, cuddled like this, it calls again. His eyelids feel heavy, his body loose and relaxed, and he takes in a sharp breath to prevent falling asleep for a moment longer.</p><p class="p1">“Wasn’t his head. Too many people in Cintra knew who he was and would have recognized him. I burned him. Watched his bones turn to ash. Cut him down with silver.” Ruined his legacy, too. The only people who will ever know what he actually did, who he actually was, will never bother to write it down, or tell his story, or let him live beyond their nightmares. He’s been utterly and completely erased. Jaskier smiles and rubs his cheek on Geralt’s arm. He presses a sleepy, sloppy kiss to his skin just to be extra obvious about it.</p><p class="p1">“Good.” He can feel Geralt smile. Silver. For monsters. It’s dramatic and perfect and so beautifully encapsulates his witcher. There’s more to the story, there always is with stories like this. But right now Jaskier’s tired and Geralt’s holding him close, and sleep is a siren call that he doesn’t even have to will to want to resist any longer.</p><p class="p1">Geralt’s voice rouses him once more. He hears the tone and feels the vibration of it first, and it takes him a moment to understand what it was that he said at all. “I did.” Jaskier blinks his eyes open with some considerable effort and replays his words until it cuts through his confusion.</p><p class="p1">“Did? Did what?”</p><p class="p1">“I loved them. Pavetta was strong, and beautiful. She fought to have the life she wanted and she didn’t get a single fuck about who she had to hurt to get it. And he. Well. He was smart. I trusted them both. Wanted them, if I’m being honest. I remember watching his body burn and wondering, was it all a lie? She was devoted to him. Did he love her at all?” Geralt’s voice was so small, so lost. It ached. Jaskier’s heart ached for him. The pain he conveys in his voice. The loss. And Ciri, too, the darling thing. He feels like he understands it all so perfectly now.</p><p class="p1">Geralt presses a kiss to head once more. It’s the last thing Jaskier remembers, sleep claiming him shortly after.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p5">It takes a while for Jaskier to wake up. He can feel warmth, but it’s not the familiar warmth of sunshine falling through his windows. He’s naked, but that’s no real surprise. The surprise is that the sheets are much softer than the downright heavenly pelts he has in his own bed. Jaskier stirs some, just to feel his body and check for, oh, yes. There it is. He lets out a low groan and stretches his limbs lazily, reveling in the dull ache he feels all over. Well fucked. He’s certain that once he finds his legs he’ll be able to see the bruises and bite marks he’s been lavished with, marks he’s made well known he enjoys wearing.</p><p class="p5">There’s a low chuckle behind him and Jaskier doesn’t even bother to open his eyes. He’s safe here. Probably the safest place in the whole Continent to be. He feels the bed dip under new weight and then a sudden warmth as a body curls around him, a hand slipping over his waist to pull him in closer. Jaskier smiles and nuzzles his face into the pillows. “You’re still here.”</p><p class="p5">“Came back down once Ciri went off to her lessons.” A sloppy kiss is pressed to the back of his neck and Jaskier groans with that sensation, too. All in all this is adding up to be a lovely morning.</p><p class="p5">“We’ll have a lazy morning then?” He can feel Geralt’s rumbling growl vibrating against his back as Geralt runs his nose across his skin.</p><p class="p5">“You say it like every morning hasn’t been lazy for you.” Jaskier laughs at that, swatting at Geralt’s hand on his waist because he can’t be bothered to turn around and smack at him more properly. Besides, it’s true. He’s been downright spoiled here.</p><p class="p5">“Boo, hush.” Jaskier does turn around in Geralt’s arms then, because now he wants a kiss and that’s more than worth the effort. Geralt’s mouth presses against his slowly, chaste. For a moment. It doesn’t take long at all for Geralt to lick at his lips and Jaskier indulges in it despite the sour taste on his own tongue. The slide of his mount against his, slowly waking him up, is the most indulgent experience he’s had here. He wants more of it. Forever of it.</p><p class="p5">The more awake he becomes, the more his body floods with that now all too familiar need to get up and get going and move. He presses his hand to Geralt’s hip and pushes, rolling them over so he can straddle him. It’s what he’s been doing for the past few days, channeling this manic energy into their sex, desperate to keep his wandering feet to stay put one day longer. He’s only just begun to enjoy the gift of Geralt’s company, he doesn’t want to leave yet. But he does, desperately.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s hand slides down his back, palming his ass and Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt as they kiss. His skin is feverish, lust beginning to curl into his gut, his cock starts to thicken. A very good morning indeed. Geralt pulls back, chuckling at him once more, as his stomach growls hungrily.</p><p class="p5">“Alright, Jaskier, let’s get you some food first.” Jaskier whines, pouting, and dropping his forehead to Geralt’s clavicle. He is practically starving now that he thinks about it. His stomach has been tied into so many anxious knots these past few days that he’s been incapable of eating as much as he usually does. He knows that Geralt’s right, eating is more important than fucking, but he’d much rather fuck.</p><p class="p5">“Okay. Food. But I still want to fuck you before the sunsets today.” Geralt’s smile gets in the way of their next kiss but Jaskier’s no better. A loud slap to his ass has Jaskier gasping before he breaks out in a wide smile, biting on his bottom lip.</p><p class="p5">“That was supposed to get you into a pair of trousers, not harder.” Jaskier lets out a giggle at the look on Geralt’s face, clearly torn between tempted and responsible. He rolls his hips one more time before doing what he’s been requested to do twice now, hopping onto the pads of his feet when they touch the cool stone. Being underground like this means the stone is colder and he shivers some for it, quick to locate his trousers.</p><p class="p7">“Yes, well, there are a lot of things that aren’t <em>supposed</em> to make me harder, darling.” Jaskier winks at Geralt as he hops into his trousers, securing the button in the front before tightening the laces in the back. He’s made that mistake far too often to be charming and he’s glad to have not made it in front of an audience. Well, his current audience. Yet.</p><p class="p7">“Oh, thank you once again. For taking care of Dimmy’s letter for me.” Jaskier picks up a tunic from the floor, something black, and far too big for him, and holds it up to his nose. He’d meant to thank Geralt for that little favor earlier, but he’s been rather scatter brained these past few days. The tunic smells overwhelmingly of Geralt but not sour yet and therefore, it’s perfect. He throws it over his head and plunges his arms through. “It means a lot to me that you’d deliver it to her mother.” Geralt shrugs, sitting up in the bed now, bare feet touching the same cool stone, and there’s something in his eye that Jaskier’s come to associate with a quick succession of orgasms. Jaskier smirks.</p><p class="p7">“You like me in your clothes?” Geralt licks his lips, tilts his head to the side, and gifts him with one of his small but oh, so, meaningful smiles. It’s answer enough for Jaskier. He abandons the job of tucking the chemise into his trousers to wrap his hands around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt melts into the touch, hands grabbing a hold of his thighs as he presses his face into Jaskier’s belly, clearly enjoying the way their scents mix together on his skin. Jaskier may not be a witcher who’s been mutated to have an unbelievably sensitive sense of smell, but he can still enjoy Geralt’s scent on him. The surge of excitement he feels at the anticipation of going about his day knowing that he’ll be able to randomly catch the scent of his lover. He’s always been fond of nicking clothing from his lovers for that very reason.</p><p class="p7">“I like you in my clothes. Passing your friend’s letter along was nothing.” Geralt presses a kiss to his hip before he bites at the bone, something that has Jaskier pushing him away giggling because of how it tickles. Geralt’s smile when he uses the opportunity to stand up is breath taking. This must be real. It can’t be just a curse. It simply can’t be just a curse.</p><p class="p7">“It was something.” Geralt presses a kiss to his temple and presses his hand against the small of Jaskier’s back, encouraging him to get a move on.</p><p class="p7">“You’re welcome.” Jaskier finishes tucking in his pilfered shirt while Geralt slips on his boots and then they’re headed up the stairs to join Eskel and Lambert for their breakfast. They’ll probably have finished eating by now but they may catch them still deep in conversation, might be able to persuade them to stick around a little longer and watch him eat. Jaskier plucks his doublet up from where it was tossed under a pillow on the couch on his way out the door and Geralt frowns when he sees it.</p><p class="p7">“Is that where that was? Ciri could have found that.” Jaskier tugs on the hem, straightening it out over his chest, and gives Geralt his biggest, smarmiest grin.</p><p class="p7">“Ah, yes, but. She didn’t.” Geralt doesn’t seem too bothered by his antics this time and besides, it’s his own damn fault the doublet was hidden in the couch and not on the floor of his room with all of his other clothing. When they walk down the hallway Jaskier trails his fingers along he stone, feeling the particular coolness that comes from being underground, and yearns for the warmth of the spring sunlight on his skin.</p><p class="p7">“What’s next? After all the Warlording is done?” With the return of his nightmares, he understands where this restless energy is coming from. His legs to itch to continue walking, he thinks he might be able to walk for days without growing tired. He wants to.</p><p class="p7">“Never really stopped to think about it.” Jaskier shrugs a shoulder.</p><p class="p7">“There’s always a chance that Ciri will take over?” Of course, Jaskier doesn’t know when that might be. No time soon that’s for certain. Not in time for him to be able to walk the path accompanied. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side yet. He’s only just recently been able to enjoy him in all his glories. It would be such a waste to run away after only a week of being invited into his bed.</p><p class="p7">“No. Well, yes, a chance but.” Geralt frowns, huffing, and Jaskier smiles at him for it. It’s cute how flustered he is already. “She may want to take Cintra. Or she may want to go on the Path. Or she may want something else entirely. I won’t build plans on her back.” Well, it’s answer enough. Jaskier is going to go crazy in a cage he crawled into willingly and one Geralt may never fucking leave again. </p><p class="p7">“A vacation?” Geralt laughed. He actually laughed. Jaskier pouts, but he supposes that this is pretty much the expected response.</p><p class="p7">“Uh, maybe? I’d have to.” Geralt pauses, looking adorably confused. “Never occurred to me either.” Jaskier grabs a hold of his arm and smiles at him like he won something.</p><p class="p7">“Might wanna start thinking about that then, huh?” Geralt’s eyebrows curl together and stares at him like he’s just said something in an unheard of language. Jaskier beams at him, laughing. Moments like this, the restless need to go, go, go just fades away and it’s easy to convince himself that there’s happiness enough here.</p><p class="p7">The remainder of their walk is quiet. Geralt’s busy considering Jaskier’s questions and Jaskier is busy calculating how much longer he can ignore his ever growing desperation to leave this Keep and go back on the roads. He can’t help but feel he met him a lifetime too late. Following Geralt on the Path, watching him slay monsters, walking by his side as they adventured across the Continent. It was so much the life he wanted for himself right now.</p><p class="p7">When they make their way to the Dining Hall it’s fairly empty and before Jaskier’s able to even finish building a plate for himself Geralt’s attention is stolen away. Warlording, it seems, refuses to allow him a single lazy morning. There’s a moment where Geralt puts his hand on Jaskier’s lower back and his breath is caught in his throat. It looks like, insanely, Geralt may kiss him goodbye for the day, here in the Hall, in front of everyone. Jaskier wants that. His simple touches. His causal affection.</p><p class="p7">He doesn’t.</p><p class="p7">So Jaskier eats his meal alone and bounces his leg the entire time and wonders bitterly if he’ll ever be able to wake up in the morning and climb those stairs to see Geralt and Ciri eating their shared little breakfast and be welcomed. Ciri absolutely adores him, which of course she does most people do, and she’d be doubly delighted to see him emerge from the depths of Geralt’s room. She’s practically been begging the two of them to fall in love already.</p><p class="p7">He’s being maudlin again. And grumpy. He knows why he can’t have that. He even agreed with Geralt when he brought up the issue.</p><p class="p7">Still. He wants. And for all of Geralt’s new found closeness, Jaskier is still being held at arm’s length. Again. He knows why. He agrees with it. He still doesn’t like it.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier chews on his callouses and stares at his food. His body is hungry but the food tastes like ash in his mouth and feeling it slide down his gullet makes him want to retch it right back up. Still, he eats. Very slowly, because he’s very busy chewing on his callouses, bouncing his leg, being maudlin and grumpy, and overall just being very bitchy, but he’s eating so that’s something. He very much wishes he were in a more traditional court right now. Finding petty squabbles to let out this overwhelming manic need to just <em>fucking do something already</em> is so much easier in traditional courts.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p7">Jaskier’s restlessness only grows. His leg bounces, his hands tap, he’s chewing on his callouses, and he’s even babbling more; mouth running faster than his brain can supply the words, leaving him humming and mumbling and all around more bothersome than usual. He’s full of energy, near manic with it. As much as he wishes he could stay inside all day exploring the massive witcher library now that he knows how to find it, he simply can’t. His bouncing and tapping and humming get him gently tossed out within the hour and he’s thankful for it each time.</p><p class="p7">He spends his days wandering the grounds now, lute in hand, strumming and plucking, but even that provides him none of the comfort it usually does. His hands are healed, they aren’t sore and they aren’t slow and he has Triss just as much as his biology to thank for it. His fingers are still red, he can still trace the spiraling root system of his blood vessels on his hands, but it’s faded, and the lines disappear just after his wrist. He’s thankful it doesn’t travel up his entire forearm anymore. He could hide them with a good pair of gloves when he needs to, but he already hates shoes. He’s not too excited about dulling the sensation in his hands, too.</p><p class="p7">He plucks the strings of his lute, walks through the tall grasses and sun warmed wildflowers, feels and smells the give of the soft dirt beneath his toes, and finds no comfort in it any of it.</p><p class="p7">He can’t write. He watches the sun move in the sky and can’t piece together a string of words to best describe the beauty of it’s light shimmering on the mountains surrounding his view. His fingers stumble and drop chords and his mind feels fogged. His dreams are haunted by that horrible nightmare. He’s barely capable to eat one meal a day. He feels like he’s fading away.</p><p class="p7">He’s frustrated. Ciri would say that he’s grumpy. Lambert would say he’s bitchy. Geralt seems to think he’s fragile now.</p><p class="p7">“Hey little stow away.” Jaskier doesn’t look away from the sun set. He doesn’t need to. By now he can recognize those purposefully audible footsteps, that subtle scent of metal, and the rich voice without looking to confirm. His ears hear the words, he recognizes who those words belong to, and still it doesn’t quite reach him until he feels the press of Eskel’s thigh into his own as he sits next to him. “You’re bleeding.” Eskel’s voice is low, quiet, and it somehow startles Jaskier but he doesn’t know why it does.</p><p class="p7">He can see Eskel’s worry in his eyes, the way his eyebrows tilt, and in the way his entire body is turned towards him. Eskel keeps his hands in his own lap, though, and for some reason Jaskier is thankful for it. He usually begs for affection but now it feels like he’d be unable to stop himself from recoiling if Eskel were to try and reach out for him.</p><p class="p7">“Oh.” Jaskier looks down at his hands and sees that it’s true. One of his callouses must have gotten caught on the string wrong. Playing too long, too carelessly, how long has he been out here? He feels the lute lift out of his hands and he lets the weight of it go, watching through a daze as Eskel sets it carefully on the ground next to him, away from his own reach. Jaskier tucks the finger into his mouth and sucks on the blood. It’s not still bleeding, it was only a little blood, but still. He hadn’t noticed.</p><p class="p7">The sun turned the sky into the most shocking, burning orange. It painted the clouds a pink the likes of which he’d never seen before, and still the blue of the sky bleeds into all of it, a baby blue thats only intensified all the other colors. It looks like the sky itself has caught aflame and he sat in a daze and watched it all as if he were no more than a ghost.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier scowls, partly at the taste and partly at his own melancholia.</p><p class="p7">“You’ve been quiet these past few days.” Eskel’s voice does a good job of cutting through the haze, similar to how Ciri’s annoyed huff does, or Lambert’s fingers jabbing into his ribs does, but never quite as successfully as Geralt’s hands on his skin does. He feels like he could fall through the floor, or trip through the stone walls of the keep, until Geralt’s hands touch his feverish skin and he feels once more like he’s solid and real.</p><p class="p7">“Yeah.” Jaskier wipes the spit from his finger into his trousers and runs his hands over his face, through his hair, trying to push out the dreams. Taking in a deep breath, feeling his chest expand, and letting it out slowly he finds a smile that doesn’t feel like a lie and looks over to Eskel with his shoulders relaxed. “I’m just so tired these days, I think.” Eskel isn’t so much looking at him as he is watching him. The silence stretches on long enough that Jaskier wonders if he is actually lying, and it’s a strange thought to have because he is tired, but there’s something in the downturn of Eskel’s mouth that makes him worry anyway. Of the two of them, Eskel would know, he thinks.</p><p class="p7">“How old are you Jaskier?” It catches him off guard, it seems like such a strange question in this moment. It’s been a long time since he’s heard his name in Eskel’s voice and he has a moment where he thinks ‘must be in trouble’ which makes him smile because he knows it’s another irrational thought.</p><p class="p7">“Twenty three.”</p><p class="p7">“And what’s the longest you’ve stayed in one place?” Jaskier smiles because it’s another strange question and he can think of several ways to answer him.</p><p class="p7">“Sixteen years.” Jaskier smirks and Eskel frowns and they both know that’s not the right answer. Besides, he left often. Ran away for weeks at a time, hid himself well with bags of coin he’d pilfered. Slept under the twinkling stars and felt the rocks digging into his back and never once dreamed of shadows reaching out for him or voices whispering for him to home come.</p><p class="p7">“Four years, when I attended Oxenfurt Academy.” It’s probably not the best answer either, because he ran away from there, too. Eskel raises an eyebrow and Jaskier knows he’s been caught in another bad answer. Jaskier made good grades, took his exams with flying colors, and he left often. Even then he was restless. His leg bounced, his fingers tapped, he drove the entire Academy insane with his endless noice. His dreams were anxious, large stone walls that blocked out the sun and shadows that seemed be alive with something invisible and dancing and mocking in long hallways that took him no where.</p><p class="p7">“I don’t think I’ve stayed anywhere longer than a month since I was ten. Not without running away for at least three days.” Eskel nods then, and smiles, and he looks fond and exhausted. Jaskier feels caught, so distracted by his newly acquired bed partner that he wasn’t seeing his own cycle clearly. “Ah.”</p><p class="p7">“That’s a long time to never stop moving.” Jaskier hangs his head and feels embarrassed that he’s been so obvious and so clueless.</p><p class="p7">“I’ve gotta get outta here. These walls are driving me crazy.” Eskel’s hand wraps around his shoulder then and Jaskier relaxes into the touch. It’s familiar and comfortable and kind and it makes his smile easier to fake.</p><p class="p7">“We all get like this from time to time. The scent of the sunlight on the fresh earth has had all of us clawing at the stones, just as desperate to get back out into the world as you are.”</p><p class="p7">“Do you still feel it? Even now?” Eskel nods, shaking him by the shoulder good-naturedly.</p><p class="p7">“All the time. It gets easier to deal with the longer we go without it. The Path doesn’t offer us the same relief it used to. It’s part of the reason why Lambert gets the way he does sometimes. You’ve been wandering around the Keep the exact same way he used to, years ago. Took me a while to realize why it looked so familiar to me.” Eskel’s smile is blinding, full of humor, and Jaskier’s anxiety begins to break up and ebb away under the light of it.</p><p class="p7">“What’s changed?” Eskel lets his shoulder go so he can push their bodies together, shoulder to thigh, sharing his warmth. Jaskier didn’t realize he was cold until Eskel leaned into him. The spring evening air still tasted of the winter it was chasing away.</p><p class="p7">“Less monsters to track and kill, even less coin for doing it. We aren’t needed anymore. Not the way we used to be. We were mutated to need the chase, the fight, the blood even. We’re wild animals, stow away. Similar to those creatures that evolved past wolf but weren’t quite dogs yet. Trained just enough to pass as a man but still wild enough to do what we were made for.” Jaskier doesn’t know how much he believes Eskel. He can see it in the faces of most of the men he’s met here, how much they all want to stay in the Keep, snowed in and safe. They linger in the spring and none of them seem so desperate to run away as he feels.</p><p class="p7">But, he reminds himself, he’s only seen as much as he’s been shown. He’s been welcomed with open arms but he’s never once been under the impression that he’s been counted as one of their own.</p><p class="p7">“And what changed to let you settle?” The sun is kissing the horizon now, nothing more than a thin, burning flash of light. Soon it will disappear into the earth and the only light they’ll have will the be thin sliver of the moon and the near useless stars and whatever torches have been lit. This feels intimate, like Eskel knew he’d end this conversation saying goodbye and planned it to be as beautiful as possible.</p><p class="p7">“I got old, honestly. The Wolf in my blood has settled. I want to spend my days warm and comfortable. Maybe I’ll get fat.” Jaskier laughs and Eskel joins in soon enough, his golden eyes sparkling with their shared mirth. Jaskier may end up living a much longer life than he was expecting to but he doesn’t think he’ll live long enough to see Eskel grow fat and lazy. He’s seen him train the few times he’s managed to roll out of bed in time to catch the sight of it. He’s fast and powerful and the wolfish smile on his face everytime he hears the clang of metal on metal tells Jaskier that the Wolf in his blood may have settled but it still needs.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier presses a chaste kiss to Eskel’s cheek. He feels the rough and puckered skin of his scars under his lips but he doesn’t linger on them no matter how much he wants to. He’s always been an affectionate man and he’s gone too long loving Eskel and never once making it known. Eskel doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at him at all really, just continues staring at the sun sinking into the earth, smiling like he’s been given a precious gift. It makes Jaskier’s heart swell with affection and he’s nearly tempted to kiss him again.</p><p class="p7">“Will you come back, little stow away?” The sun sinks out of sight. The fire in the sky seems to snuff out the second it disappears. The baby blue has bled into a deep indigo. It’s all still very breathtakingly beautiful.</p><p class="p7">“Of course.” He watches the way Eskel’s shoulders fall, just barely, something he’s only able to notice because they’re so close and because Eskel’s shoulder are pressed into his own. He may be just seeing things, but it looks like relief. “Oh, darling.” Jaskier’s voice shakes with his laugh and he’s weak willed enough to gift him one more chaste kiss. “You ever gonna admit to being my best friend?”</p><p class="p7">“Seems like that’s your mistake to make, not mine.” Jaskier laughs again. He’s leaving soon. He’s stuck around long enough that he best friend had to pull him aside and tell him he needed to leave before he drove the entire pack insane with his scratching at the walls. Excitement flutters down his spine, settles in his gut, and his fingers tingle with the pent up energy thrumming in his blood. He’s leaving soon. Nights under the stars, rocks digging into his back, dirt on his silks, spring flowers and sunwarm grass and the ache in his legs as he walks and walks and walks some more.</p><p class="p7">Just the thought of that certainty brings him a taste of the peace he’s been desperately searching for. He might be able to eek out a few more days, say a few proper goodbyes, and enjoy his place curled against Geralt stinking of sweat and sex for just a few nights more.</p><p class="p7">“C’mon, Eskel. Admit it. You’re my best friend.” Eskel laughs now, too, shaking his head.</p><p class="p7">“Yeah, yeah, little stow away.” Eskel turns to face him and his smile melts into something more honest and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. He’s gorgeous in the thin moonlight. “You’re my best friend.” Eskel pushes himself up from his thighs, brushes imaginary dirt from his ass. “C’mon. Dinner time.” Eskel dips down to pick up Jaskier’s lute and lets Jaskier grab his arm like he always does.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p7">It’s the end of the day. Ciri’s in bed, safe. Geralt is fucking exhausted from having to deal with these treaties. He knows these started out with the intention to be a quick fix, an attempt to neuter the Great and Terrifying rising power of the Warlord of the South but they have quickly devolved into just more of the same never ending power struggles he’d been warned to avoid his entire upbringing.</p><p class="p7">Geralt runs his fingers over his forehead and thinks that Vesemir was right. He should’ve kept his fucking nose down and let the world go on the way it was meant to. He’d still be on the Path, sleeping under the stars and not having to deal with any of this endless bullshit.</p><p class="p7">He hasn’t seen Jaskier since this morning. Not for lack of trying of course, but it’s been a long day, lots of bullshit piling up. Well, not too much trying. Geralt hasn’t wanted to admit to it but he can see the way Jaskier’s fluttering around, fingers trailing the bars of his cage. But Geralt can’t ask him to leave. It might be the influence of all the fae majicks he’s been inhaling lately but he promised that he wouldn’t make Jaskier leave before he asked to and. Well. No matter how hard Jaskier smacked at the bars he can’t bring himself to open the doors until Jaskier asks him to.</p><p class="p7">It’s selfish, he’s aware. He’s twisting Jaskier’s words. Again, he’s aware.</p><p class="p7">If Jaskier comes back, like he keeps promising he will, who will he be when he returns? Will he be the same man who grabs his arm and presses kisses to his cheek and laughs when he’s being fucked into the mattress because he’s just genuinely having such a fantastic time? Geralt’s never really laughed during sex before. Its honestly better. He feels like he’s been missing something all these years.</p><p class="p7">Finding him is no trouble. It’s the being found-ness of it that’s the trouble. Maybe it’s the endless seeking him out that’s the real trouble. Setting out to find something typically leads to one finding it and if one doesn’t want something to be found then it’s probably good practice to not go looking at all.</p><p class="p7">But Geralt doesn’t feel like he has much of a choice in the seeking these days.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier sits on the sill of a window he’s opened in some hallway he’s ended up in. Geralt’s not entirely sure how he managed to get it open, he wasn’t aware the windows were still capable of being opened anymore, but there he is. One foot dangling, almost long enough to touch the floor, the heel of his shoe tapping lightly against the stone wall. His lute is in his lap and he’s playing something that he doesn’t think is anything at all really, not even the old songs he plays to loosen his fingers and tune his instrument. The sound is quick and sweet and Geralt stands unnoticed and watches Jaskier stare out at the stars.</p><p class="p7">It makes for quite a beautiful picture. His neck is long and Geralt can see the thud of his heartbeat in the taught muscle. His hands are beautiful, long and slender fingers flying away at the strings. His skin almost seems to glow in the low moonlight, barely any of it left, almost a new moon, and yet his skin captures all of it, reflects it back. Before he would have chalked it up to his being naturally attractive but now he wonders if it’s the fae in im, connected to the earth in a way that Geralt can never understand.</p><p class="p7">Even now, in this tranquil moment, Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s body longs for freedom. He can see it in the incessant tapping of his heel against the stone, the speed of his fingers on the string, and the way that Geralt’s presence has gone unnoticed despite how obvious he’s been.</p><p class="p7">There’s a medallion tucked away in his rooms. It’s been ready for days now and Geralt hasn’t been able to bring himself to gift it to him yet. This isn’t the first time he’s caught Jaskier in a moment like this, half faded away. Giving him the medallion now seems like. Well, almost like a goodbye. He doesn’t want to let go of the fantasy just yet. One more day.</p><p class="p7">“Julek.” An old name, one he hasn’t heard used in a long time, a pet name. Geralt doesn’t want to startle him, keeping his voice low. It seems to take a moment for it to reach Jaskier, his eyes dragged away from the landscape slowly, like he needs to moment to remember where he is. It’s not an uncommon sight these days but it still twists his heart everytime he sees it. He feels like a jailor and a prisoner all at once. </p><p class="p7">Jaskier seems to be wilting in these halls, the light and fire and warmth he’d brought with him dulling each day deeper into spring they get. Geralt can’t help but feel like a prize that Jaskier has grown bored of now that he’s been ablt to claim it. It curls his stomach into knots, makes his mouth twist sourly. He doesn’t know what to do about this, doesn’t want to send him away but can’t stand seeing him like this either.</p><p class="p7">Slowly recognition seems to spark in Jaskier’s eyes and he smiles. Jaskier’s smile is easy and sweet, changing the shape of his face, making him look younger. That old, familiar, dulling fire sparks about him for a moment. Geralt has missed it’s warmth.</p><p class="p7">“No one’s called me that in forever.” Jaskier’s voice lilts with a gentle laugh and he slips from the window sill easily, landing with a gentle click from his boots. Geralt allows him slip into his arms without hesitation, without a hint of uncertainty, and when he tilts his chin for a kiss Geralt complies. He can indulge in this fantasy for another day or two. He knew when he finally gave in to this that this is what he’d be risking. He’s never asked Jaskier to love him once the curse is lifted and he’s never going to. He’ll take this, all of it he can get, and hope that by the end of it Jaskier will still be there.</p><p class="p7">The kiss doesn’t last too long. He pulls away before Jaskier can have a chance to deepen it, already breathing hard, hands fisted in his shirt. Jaskier drops his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder and huff out a shaking laugh. “I think the curse gets more intense everyday.” He sounds out of breath when he says it and it sends a wave of uncertainty blooms through him. He knows that Yen said two years, maybe three. How much of that will they still be able to touch?</p><p class="p7">Jaskier didn’t seem to want to talk to him about the particulars of breaking the curse. For now, Geralt didn’t want to think on them either. It’s an old habit, avoid the inevitable for as long and as silently as one can, and he’s all too eager to indulge in it with Jaskier. Jaskier doesn’t seem to want anything more from him than what he’s offering right now. A fantasy. Geralt isn’t sure who it is that’s being selfish. Sometimes it’s him, sometimes it’s Jaskier. He can’t fault him for it, especially if he’s going to continue being so damn willing to give in to it.</p><p class="p7">“You promised you’d come back.” It’s as close as he’ll get to admitting to knowing what he does. Jaskier doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t try to lie to him, doesn’t do anything but press his small, sad little smile into his shoulder and nod.</p><p class="p7">“Yeah. I did.” Geralt keeps his hands on Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier keeps his face hidden from him. Jaskier’s hands are shaking where they’re pressed against his stomach, curled into tight fists, holding onto him for dear life.</p><p class="p7">“You didn’t say when.” Geralt doesn’t know why he says it. He didn’t intend to. His mouth seems to be doing that to him a lot lately, opening, spilling secrets, tongue wagging far too eagerly. He feels a curl of embarrassment but doesn’t give into it. He’s already been so vulnerable with this man. What’s one more inch. He’ll have nothing left eventually. It’s embarrassing but it’s not as scary as it used to be, when it was Yen he thought he’d be losing himself to.</p><p class="p7">“No. I didn’t.” Geralt nods. Jaskier nuzzles his nose into his shirt, probably cold. The spring air filling the halls is cold but he can still smell the warmth of the dirt seeping into the breeze, too. So different from fall.</p><p class="p7">It’s these moments that make Geralt feel the weight of the curse separating them. It hangs heavy the air between them, an insurmountable distance, thick enough that it makes air feel thin in his lungs. It’s useless, loving him. He’ll leave and the longer he’s gone the easier it’ll be for him to never return. Just knowing him has jeopardized Jaskier’s life. When Geralt set out to make a space for him and his brothers in this world it was with the goal of isolation. Humans to the left, witchers to the right.</p><p class="p7">He doesn’t know why he’s been so foolish as to think he could involve them now.</p><p class="p7">Geralt breaks their embrace, leaving the hall and beginning their walk to his rooms. Jaskier falls into synch with only a moment’s hesitation. Their shoulders bump with almost every step and they both keep quiet. It’s normal for Geralt, despite his new found conversational skills with Jaskier, but it’s not for him. He can hear Jaskier’s fingers trailing along the stone. He watches the way Jaskier’s gaze locks onto the landscape with every window they pass, and how he turns his head to look out of the frame for as long he can as they continue to walk.</p><p class="p7">Perhaps it’s his youth? Or the fae blood in his veins. Maybe his desperation to leave isn’t because he’s had Geralt and now he’s bored. Maybe he just cannot be contained, refuses to be kept.</p><p class="p7">“You’re nobility, but no one’s looking for you.” Jaskier smirks, bemused, and his mouth works for a moment as he tries to follow the jumps Geralt’s made silently.</p><p class="p7">“Well. Yes?”</p><p class="p7">“You abdicated.” Jaskier’s fond smile turns confused, eyebrows furrowing together.</p><p class="p7">“Years ago, yes. Why?”</p><p class="p7">“You didn’t want to be kept. You wanted to travel, be free.” Jaskier is clearly lost, and concerned, but Geralt’s can feel a sinking sense of dread. There’s something here, some uncomfortable truth, something so obvious he’s missed it completely. “Why are you here?”</p><p class="p7">“Well. I.” Jaskier’s smirk turns into a frown, a little affronted. Geralt watches him begin to build a defense, putting his walls up, walls that Geralt has never seen before. He’s already asked this question, which is probably why it never occurred to him to see it from this angle. But now, seeing Jaskier stare out at the world with such faded coloring, a dying flower picked because it was too pretty to let it live outside, it’s made him realize the sheer audacity of the scenario.</p><p class="p7">“No, I mean. You give up nobility and all it’s comforts because you’d rather wander the Continent as a fucking <em>traveling bard</em>, but you get one letter from a friend and you risk all that freedom you’ve already given up everything for? To marry me? You really couldn’t come up with a better idea to spare your friend?” Geralt’s not mad. Jaskier, for his part, looks just as incredulous as Geralt feels. Something in his eyes, the defensive curl to his shoulders, makes Geralt think <em>‘he has no fucking clue either’</em>.</p><p class="p7">“I wanted to gain access to the Keep. See witchers up close and personal.”</p><p class="p7">“There had to be a better way than marriage.” Geralt can’t keep the condescension out of his tone. Jaskier’s anger sparks at that, clearly still confused but unwilling to allow Geralt make him feel stupid and young and foolish. It’s a hint of that spark he’s been missing.</p><p class="p7">“Well fuck me for trying, Geralt. I had one week’s notice, I saw an opportunity and I took it. What exactly are you trying to tell me?” His hands go his hips and he looks beautiful like this, too. His voice different, harsh and quick. His eyes are burning, bright and alive and <em>here</em>.</p><p class="p7">“You’re a fool.” And a child. Geralt should have never touched him. Everything about him reeks of destiny, of a choice neither of them could have made. Geralt feels like a pawn, like a toy, and it’s not unlike how he felt when he’d claimed Law of Surprise that night fourteen years ago, too. He’s a fool who can’t see past his own nose and Jaskier is a child who doesn’t know how to fear the things he sees stalking him in the shadows.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier’s eyes blow wide, mouth trying to form words but his mind is clearly going either too fast or not at all, incapable of providing the necessary input. Geralt’s been a fool, too. This isn’t anything. When Eskel spoke of fate intervening in his marriage he said it with hope, with reverence. When Geralt sees the strings tied around his wrists, puppeteering him, he’s filled with rage.</p><p class="p7">He’s been mourning the loss of a man he’s never had. Geralt shakes his head, teeth grinding, and starts walking to his rooms with every intention of leaving Jaskier alone in this hall.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier grabs his arm as he passes by him, the touch so surprising that he lets it stop him, glaring at the stone floor, frowning. Everything about Jaskier screams to his anger, even his scent is heated with it. He can feel the almost touch of Jaskier’s nose to his cheek.</p><p class="p7">“Why are you being an ass? You knew all of that, have known it for months now. What are you really trying to get at?” Jaskier’s voice is cold, void of even the light of his anger. Geralt turns to meet his gaze and he can see how hurt he is. It cuts right through all the meager anger he’s tried to drum up. Just another terrible attempt to push someone away, protect himself from being left.</p><p class="p7">“I don’t know what I was thinking. This is a terrible idea.” Jaskier rolls his eyes and drops his shoulders, but doesn’t let go of him.</p><p class="p7">“Really? A witcher and a fucking fae bard? What could possibly go wrong, we’re practically a match made in the stars.” Geralt can practically taste the sarcasm in his words. He can see the relief rolling off of him, the way Jaskier quirks his mouth into a hopeful attempt at a smile. It eases something in him, too. That need to push and bite and isolate.</p><p class="p7">“I mean, really Geralt? So what if this whole experience goes bursting into flames and leaves us both burned.” Jaskier presses their foreheads together, sighs. “Isn’t it enough to have loved at all?” Geralt’s spent his entire life running away from that exact sentiment. A distinctly human sentiment. Their lives are so short and so quick that they’re greedy like this, taking and taking and never once thinking of the destruction they leave behind for monsters like him to live in. This little fantasy they’re sharing, this little pretended love, it’ll leave him broken for longer than he cares to admit even to himself.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier will just be gone. Off somewhere else, living the great adventurous life he wanted. And Geralt will be left behind, the sense of something missing a constant presence in his life. One that he’d always felt but never so intently. What had once been a distant, dull ache is now a weight he carries on his back. And he will carry it. And Jaskier will not. “How could this possibly be enough to make it worth anything?”</p><p class="p7">He can feel Jaskier smile, chuckle some, too. “Because it’s clearly already happened? What’s the point in pushing me away now, when you’ll miss me regardless if you spend the night with me or not.”</p><p class="p7">“You’ll die on me.” Geralt’s not willing to kiss him again, not yet. He wants to, aches to, desperate to apologize already. He shouldn’t have said any of it; he should’ve kept his worries to himself. “You said love.” Jaskier pulls back, smiling and laughing lowly and staring at him like he can’t for the life of himself understand why he feels so fondly for him. It’s a look that Yen and Ciri both have given him over the years. Pavetta, once, too.</p><p class="p7">“I did, yes. I was cursed to love you, you know.” Jaskier’s gaze softens and sobers, and his voice becomes a soft whisper. “But, I think. I hope. That I would have been smart enough to love you without it’s influence, too.” Geralt palms his jawline, runs his thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. He looks so young, so small, and so terrifyingly sincere.</p><p class="p7">“You can’t mean that.” Geralt’s trying his best to close his doors. Lock Jaskier out, but the little shit keeps managing to jam his foot in the doorway each time. He doesn’t want to have to mourn the loss of him. He’s only had him for such a short time. It can only hurt more, the more time he spends with him.</p><p class="p7">“We die. Humans are sort of built to do that, sooner or later.” Jaskier’s sad little smile turns playful for a moment. “Well, three fourths. Still.” Jaskier touches his cheeks with the tips of his fingers, gentle, soft, before grabbing him and holding him still so he can push their foreheads together once more. Geralt feels flayed open, forced bare. He wants to run away from his touch but he leans into it instead. This all would have been so much easier if it had been a waif of a woman too scared to meet his eyes and far too happy to lock herself away in a tower somewhere to pray to any goddess that would listen to send her a brave knight. Easier, yes, but nowhere near as exhilarating as Jaskier’s gentle touch.</p><p class="p7">“Ciri will, too, you know. Quicker than me. You don’t fear her love as much as you fear mine.” Ciri was destiny’s gift to him. What does that make Jaskier? Destiny’s curse? This feels like a knife driven deep inbetween his ribs, twisted once buried to the hilt, too, just to be sure.</p><p class="p7">“She won’t wake up tomorrow and realize she’s been taken advantage of by a monster.” Geralt clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut. He hadn’t meant to say that either. Didn’t mean for his voice to betray the tears he wishes he could shed for that thought.</p><p class="p7">“Oh, darling, no.” Jaskier kisses him, chaste, sweet, and Geralt’s too much of a monster to not chase his mouth and taste his sweetness once more. “I wanted you before this pesky little curse, remember? You told me you could smell it on me.” Geralt laughs at his little joke, a relieved little sound. Barely a laugh at all really, but it sends Jaskier into a small fit of giggles, too, and that only feeds back into his own laughter.</p><p class="p7">It’s true. In all the chaos of Jaskier’s burning presence in his life, he’d forgotten their simple, easy meeting. The way Jaskier tempted him and the way he was tempted. The curse couldn’t have been the reason for the sweet peppery flavor of him then.</p><p class="p7">“I won’t know who I’ll be when this curse is finally out of me. But I do know that what you’ve taken I have freely given. There’s no need to brace yourself for my hatred. I don’t think there’s a single thing you could do to earn that.” Geralt kisses him instead of dealing with that. It’s too honest, too sincere. Too much. Jaskier presses him into the wall and moans into his mouth and Geralt gives himself into this because it’s much easier than their words. His throat hurts with how much he’s said already.</p><p class="p7">Geralt doesn’t believe him. Not fully. He won’t be able to until this curse is settled, gone and done. Only then, when Jaskier says love, when he says things like ‘<em>I chose to</em>’ will be able to believe them. For right now, it’s a beautiful fantasy and a painful knife in his torso all at once. He’s been alive for a hundred and fifty years now, roughly. When destiny doles out her gifts they’re never so close together. Jaskier can’t be here to fill in that space Geralt was doing so fucking well ignoring. He simply can’t be. He <em>isn’t</em>.</p><p class="p7">When they finally mange to make it into his rooms Geralt’s careful to grab the journal holding the medallion in it’s pages on his way down the stairs. Jaskier’s mouth doesn’t leave his skin for longer than it takes for them to make it down the stairs without cracking someone’s skull open. And even then Jaskier spends his time shedding his clothes.</p><p class="p7">Geralt tosses the journal to the desk and Jaskier laughs as he shucks his boots and steps out of his trousers. His hands are on him the second they’re free, helping him to divulge of his own clothing. Did their argument, or well. Almost argument, really, Jaskier is too good. Too good a man for him. Geralt hasn’t done anything worthy of his gentle strength. Jaskier’s hands are quick, desperate, needy.</p><p class="p7">Was it their almost argument that inspired his need this time? Or is it more of the curse? It’s proven itself more of a double edged sword than he’d expected it to be. It makes Jaskier slip away from him quickly, lost in his own body, his own pleasure. It’s beautiful and intoxicating but he wishes that Jaskier were more aware of him when he comes. Sometimes it seems like Jaskier leaves him in these moments. He’s far less verbal now and Geralt’s surprised that he misses it, his constant jabbering.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier did warn him he would miss it, though. He really is much smarter than he lets on. At the very least, more perceptive. </p><p class="p7">Jaskier’s desperation, his earnest need, is impossible to deny. He drags his nails down his skin, sinks his teeth into his muscle, desperate, starving, lost in his own lust. Geralt gives into his every keening whine, fucking into him hard, leaving bruises layered ontop of bruises, and when Jaskier has reached his satisfaction he allows himself to chase his own. Jaskier loves it, begs him for it, to fuck into him endlessly. Geralt thinks that if he ever gets a chance to do this when Jaskier isn’t suffering under the effects of this curse then they both may be able to fuck all night. With Jaskier beneath him, he feels like an animal lost to his rut, desperate to hear Jaskier’s breathy moans, to feel his fevered flesh under his palms. When he fucks him he never wants to stop fucking him.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier is panting, sprawled out on the bed, slowly coming to, drenched in sweat. Geralt can’t help himself, licking at his come, cooling on his stomach, a few ropes having even gone as far up his chest as his nipple. The taste of him on his tongue is sharp, and bitter, and sweet. It’s delicious. He takes his time, licking him slowly. He can feel Jaskier stirring back to consciousness below him, letting out a low, satisfied hum.</p><p class="p7">Jaskier is cursed, Jaskier wants to be in his bed, Jaskier will leave soon and as much as he wants to believe him when he says he’ll come back, Geralt knows he won’t. As stupid as it is, he’ll take this while he can. Jaskier is right, he’s already going to miss him, may as well make it worth something.</p><p class="p7">“Hm. Hey.” Jaskier’s eyes stay closed but his hand slips into his hair and Geralt moans into his stomach. He loves the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers in his hair.</p><p class="p7">“Hey.” Geralt bite as his skin, pulling out a lazy moan and a wide smile. “You awake?”</p><p class="p7">“Almost.” Geralt traces his nose down Jaskier’s chest, making Jaskier shiver as their bodies touch, almost pressed flush against each other, and pulls in a deep lungful of Jaskier’s scent. Satisfied, lustful, contented, smelling like Geralt, smelling like sunlight.</p><p class="p7">“I have a present for you.” Jaskier stirs at that, eyes blinking open, his smile tilting to the side into a cute smirk.</p><p class="p7">“Oh? How exciting.” His voice lulls with low laughter and Geralt reaches for the journal on his sidetable, sitting up on his knees so he’s straddling Jaskier. Jaskier’s hands grab his thighs, squeezing his lightly, and his eyes soak in every inch of his body, completely on display. His fingers trail blindly over his scars, feeling them out. It’s a simple touch, a silly thing, and it makes Geralt smile.</p><p class="p7">He opens up his journal over Jaskier’s chest and the medallion falls out, landing on his skin and making him hiss. “Oh, gods that is cold,” Jaskier laughs, hands grabbing at the medallion, “fucking hell. Could have warned me you ass.” Geralt watches the mirth leave his face when he gets a proper view of what Geralt has given him. Jaskier’s fingers trace the shape of the wolf on the silver, awed. He feels a hint of laughter when he sees Jaskier’s eyes flick up to ensure that Geralt’s still wearing his own medallion.</p><p class="p7">“You had a medallion made for me?”</p><p class="p7">“To wear when you’re on the road. Keep it hidden until you’re in trouble or it may only attract more. But most people, when they see it, will leave you alone.” Jaskier’s eyes stare at him, huge.</p><p class="p7">“You give me your protection?” Geralt says nothing, returning his journal to the bedside table, and leaning down onto his forearms, bumping their noses together.</p><p class="p7">“Yes.” He’s too close to his face, they can’t get a proper sight of one another, and it’s exactly what he wanted. He doesn’t want to see his face, the bone deep love there. It’ll only make this harder. “You want to leave. You need to leave.”</p><p class="p7">“Come with me.” His voice is desperate, pleading, and so sweet. </p><p class="p7">“I can’t, but I wish to. It’s been many years since I’ve walked the path.” Jaskier’s hand cradles his cheek and gently holds him still as Jaskier sits his head up enough to kiss him. Gentle. Loving.</p><p class="p7">“I’ll come back.”</p><p class="p7">“Don’t try to break your curse. Not yet, Julek.” It’s selfish. And vulnerable. And horrible of him to ask. But he does ask it. He can smell the hint of fear in Jaskier’s scent. Just a flash of it, already fading. A fool and a child. And Geralt loves him. It’s an impossible truth to fight any longer. He loves him and he doesn’t want to loose him. Not when he’s only just gotten him.</p><p class="p7">“Rude. Horrible. Selfish.” Jaskier says it with a huge smile, impossible not to see, and he pulls Geralt down by the chain of his own medallion and kisses him. “Thank you.” Jaskier whispers his thanks into his mouth, kisses him again. “Thank you.” Another kiss. Jaskier’s arms wrap around his shoulders and he pushes him onto his back, murmuring his thanks over and over, inbetween kisses. The air between them stinks with his renewed lust and Geralt smiles, wrapping his hands around him once more.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. twelve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've had this planned since the beginning  &gt;:)  And I'm pretty fucking happy how this chapter turned out!<br/>I promise, happy ending coming!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">He’s been saying gentle, not quite goodbye, goodbyes for the past three days. He’ll be leaving soon, maybe by the end of the week. Maybe not until halfway through the next week. He’s not sure when yet, but getting everyone used to the idea of him leaving ends up being a good idea. For one thing it means he won’t have to put up with a serious goodbye, for another it means that when he does finally go it probably won’t hurt as much.</p><p class="p1">Ciri turns into his personal barnacle, Triss and Yennefer flank him during dinners, Eskel and Coën always sit with him for breakfast, and Lambert avoids him. He doesn’t take Lambert’s avoidance personally, he’s been around him long enough now to understand that out of all of them, he’s the one who will need time to adjust to his departure the most.</p><p class="p1">His restless need to escape settles down now that there’s a plan, an intention, to leave. His nightmares still continue, though.</p><p class="p1">He’s still breathing hard, still trying to chase away the memory of dark cavernous hallways. The fear tightens his throat, keeps his heart racing, but Geralt’s laid beside him, the hot puff of his breath tickling his neck. It helps. It’s the only thing that ever helped. He tries to keep track of Geralt’s heartbeat but it’s so slow. He tracks the beat of his own heart, lightly thumping his fingers on Geralt’s back, and tries to keep count of how many his beats inbetween Geralt’s. His other hand he keeps on his stomach. He can feel Geralt fiddling with the rings on his fingers, twisting them around his finger, tracing the shape of the ornaments, picking at the edge of them.</p><p class="p1">“Why do you wear so many of these?” Jaskier sighs at the sound of Geralt’s voice, rough with sleep, and quiet. Almost whispered into his ear. By now the effect of Geralt’s touch have almost numbed his body, but each gentle movement of Geralt’s fingers along his own sends a renewed tingle down his arm. He is exhausted so he tries to ignore the sensation as much as he can. He wants to enjoy their casual intimacy without his cock getting in the way.</p><p class="p1">“Why not? They’re all so pretty, aren’t they?” Geralt sits up some and pulls his hand closer, inspecting them more closely. He moves his hand around to let them glitter in the firelight and Jaskier allows it, smiling softly.</p><p class="p1">“This one I stole from my mother when I was fifteen. She’d gotten it from her mother-in-law and seemed to be of the mind that my younger sister deserved it more than I. But it’s such a brilliant blue stone isn’t it? Matches my eyes.” Geralt smiles, chuckling at him and shaking his head.</p><p class="p1">“And it wouldn’t have matched your sister’s eyes as well?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, no, darling, not nearly so well as mine. I’m the only blue eyed one of the bunch.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm.” Geralt has the ring in question held delicately inbetween two of his own fingers and wiggles the stone around to watch the firelight dance across the facets carved into it. His beautiful white hair is spilling over his shoulders, falling into his face, and Jaskier can’t even remember his own fear anymore. He captures a lock of his hair and tucks it behind his ear, making Geralt smile.</p><p class="p1">“You’re so beautiful, love.” Geralt’s smile grows but he says nothing, just moves his attention over to the next ring in the line.</p><p class="p1">“And this one?” It’s Jaskier’s favorite ring, the silver band he twirls and twirls. It’s a touch too large so it’s easy to twirl thoughtlessly.</p><p class="p1">“A gift. There’s an inscription if you’d like to see it.” Geralt quirks up an eyebrow and glances up to him before slowly sliding the ring off his finger. Geralt takes his time, giving him a chance to change his mind.</p><p class="p1">“A bird?” Geralt looks bemused, carefully sliding it back on his finger.</p><p class="p1">“Magpie, a little petname for my Countess.”</p><p class="p1">“You called your whore after a thieving little bird?” Geralt’s playfully mocking him and Jaskier gently tugs on a lock of his hair for it.</p><p class="p1">“Magpies are enchanting little creatures and their thefts are usually the inciting incidents to some of the most romantic stories on the Continent.” Geralt shakes his head, disbelieving.</p><p class="p1">“And does she have a ring for you, Julek?” Jaskier bites his lip at the sweet petname. Of all of the names he’s been called by in his life this one has been his favorite. It’s a name just for him, just for Geralt, and only spoken in these quiet, intimate moments. It sends his heart a flutter.</p><p class="p1">“No, she left this for me before fluttering away to the higher courts.” It was the only thing she left behind for him. Not even a letter. Not even a warning. He’d been heartbroken, even wrung out a few wonderful and surprisingly popular songs about it.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, you loved her.” Jaskier picks his head up right enough to bump his nose into Geralt’s.</p><p class="p1">“I did. My first. It never quite leaves you, does it?” Geralt lets out a low ‘<em>hm</em>’ and tilts his chin to capture Jaskier’s lips in a slow kiss. It sends a wave of sensation through his body, sharp and painful. It <em>hurts</em>. Jaskier gasps, pulling back in a flinch, but Geralt follows him to press another kiss to his mouth, unaware that the curse has finally turned. Now that he knows to expect pain he’s prepared for it. The pain eases quickly enough, dulling back down to their usual overwhelming level of pleasure.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier can handle this. This little spark of pain, as long as it fizzles out quickly, it’s more than manageable. He’ll be leaving soon, and already Geralt’s touch has become painful. Already. Two years. He was supposed to have two years. Will he even be able to hug Geralt when he returns? He thought it would have taken longer before the curse turned like this. Maybe that was foolish of him.</p><p class="p1">Geralt pulls on the medallion he wears everyday now, pressing the metal chain into his skin, pulling him even closer. He’s seen the way Geralt stare at the medallion on his skin. He’s seen the reactions the other witchers have had when they first spotted it, too.</p><p class="p1">“Okay?” Geralt’s seen his silence and worried for him. He feels another, overwhelming bloom of that quickly fleeting pain and nods frantically.</p><p class="p1">“I’m okay, please, please.” He doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to handle this touch anymore. He wants to savior every second he has before it becomes unbearable.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p5">“You’re leaving.” Jaskier sighs down at the keys of the clavichord, and after a long pause, nods.</p><p class="p5">“Yes, my little cub.” He turns to look at Ciri, to meet her carefully expressionless gaze. She spends far too much time with Yennefer to have such a well crafted mask already. He pulls out the letter he’s had tucked into his doublet’s interior pocket, just waiting for when he was finally brave enough to hand it to her. “Don’t read it until I’m well and truly gone. I abhor goodbyes.”</p><p class="p5">He returns his attention to the keys and begins to play once more. Another old and forgotten duet he’d trudged up special for her. He watches her from the corner of his eye, press her finger into the seam of the opening and slowly slide her finger closer and closer to the wax seal.</p><p class="p5">“When will you leave?” Her voice is so small, so quiet. He aches to tell her everything he’s put in that letter. Every plea he left inbetween each friendly line. ‘<em>Don’t resent me</em>.’ ‘<em>Don’t forget my adoration for you</em>.’ He can feel the weight of Geralt’s eyes watching him, listening to every word of their interaction. Still, as much as Ciri keeps her voice low and pretends that Geralt cannot hear them, he can. He wonders what Geralt’s thinking right now, how he’s seeing this interactions, if he’ll want to steal it from her as she sleeps and read it once or twice himself.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s touch is unbearable now. Two days. That’s all it took. Two fucking days. Geralt touches him and when Jaskier gasps and flinches in pain he can see in Geralt’s eyes just how much it pains him. He was supposed to be alone in this heartbreak. He fell into Geralt’s arms because he thought he’d be the only one who’s heart was at risk from that decision.</p><p class="p5">In the morning, he thinks. He’ll be leaving in the morning.</p><p class="p5">“Soon, love.” They both watch the wax seal lift, stretch, so close to snapping open. He won’t stop her, maybe she’s waiting to see if he’ll stop her, but she slips her finger free from the envelope, seal intact. She sighs, and places it on the music stand, tucking it into the last page of their sheet music, and begins to play alongside him. They don’t talk for the remainder of the evening.</p><p class="p5">Geralt send her off to bed with a kiss to the crown of her head. It’s quiet between them, Jaskier’s hands hover on the keys and Geralt stares at the fire and the room is silent but swelling. Geralt’s head is titled, listening to Ciri’s heartbeat, and Jaskier waits for Geralt’s little nod that will tell Jaskier they’re free to be their usual amorous selves.</p><p class="p5">Only now they can’t do that. And the swelling silence becomes heavy. And then it becomes a weight on their shoulders.</p><p class="p5">Jaskier knows that Ciri is asleep when Geralt stands up and takes the three strides to where Jaskier sits. Jaskier distracts himself from his sudden nearness by playing a melody, a made up melody, something sweet to hide how much he wants to play something bitter and sad. Jaskier lets his fingers play on, only half listening to his own music, playing it so softly it sounds more like a song carried on the wind from miles away. He watches Geralt flip through the pages of the sheet music, one by one, until he uncovers the letter Ciri tucked away.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s fingers run down the shape of her name in Jaskier’s handwriting. It’s almost reverent, but Jaskier can see the clenched jaw, the fist his other hand has curled into. They’re so close that he can feel the warmth of Geralt’s body, a welcome heat now that Ciri’s gone.</p><p class="p5">“What did you write to her?”</p><p class="p5">“A better goodbye than I can say.”</p><p class="p5">“I’m surprised that you claim to hate goodbyes. It seems so in character for you to adore them. Everyone crying, waving, praising and begging you to return.” Jaskier doesn’t take offense. It’s a true enough assumption. He does revel in them, the small town goodbyes, the waving and the cheering when he leaves a festival. Those, though, are so different from what this would be.</p><p class="p5">He’s finally fulfilled Geralt’s every dread. His very touch causes him pain. Jaskier flinches now, when Geralt reaches for him. Jaskier yearns to kiss him but anytime he’s tried has left him tearfully shaking, radiating with the pain of it, bruised like he’d been brutalized. He cannot bring himself to stay a single moment longer and continue to see that pained, heartbroken look in Geralt’s eye. It was supposed to be his heart. Just his.</p><p class="p5">“When I leave, I’m either I’m running from the company of people I’ll forget in a week’s time.” He continues to play, feels the heat rolling off of Geralt’s body, and aches to lean against him. To bite playfully at his hip. “Or, I’m leaving the arms of those I love because I can’t stand to stay a moment longer. And I cannot bear to see the betrayal in their eyes when they see me walk away from them heedless of all their sweet begging.” He swallows, misses a key in the distraction of their shared heartache. It seems unbearably cruel to make him sit next to the man he loves and have his touch be so painful.</p><p class="p5">“Their every word feels like a knife in my skin. I feel like I’m covered in a million thin scars and everyone I meet can see how empty my heart is.” Jaskier wants to be here, in these halls, with these men. He wants to continue teaching Ciri music, and drinking with Yennefer, and kissing Geralt in the night. But he’s leaving anyway. He’s still leaving. He always fucking leaves, no matter how much he wants to stay. Geralt returns the sheet music to it’s original page. Jaskier wants nothing more in the world than the feel of Geralt’s hand encircling the back of his neck. Steady, safe, and secure.</p><p class="p5">“I’ve met men with empty hearts, Jaskier. Yours seems to carry the whole world inside it.”</p><p class="p5">“I hope the weight of it does not bother you, then, dearest witcher.” Jaskier finally, finally, turns to look at him. His eyes are pure gold, sparkling in the firelight. He looks exhausted. He stares down at Jaskier like he’s never seen anything so fragile. He slips both of his hands into his pockets, fisted in the fabric. Jaskier’s hands stop moving along the keys and he wraps the medallion in a fist of his own, enraptured by the gold of his eyes.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s eyes flick down to Jaskier’s hand, and then flick away. Geralt tucks his fisted hands into his pockets and clenches his jaw. Jaskier wants to reach out to touch him, but there’s nothing but pain to be found in his touch.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">He takes enough time once he wakes up to write one last letter. He has a bag on his back already when he tucks it into Geralt’s journal. He’s careful to slip it in right under the still living chain of dandelions, leaving it on the table of his rooms so it won’t be too difficult to find. He doesn’t expect Geralt to remember the chain of flowers, or any of the conclusions he’s reached about them after his little fae revelation, but he doesn’t want to risk Geralt putting two and two together too quickly.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t want to be stopped before he’s has a chance.</p><p class="p1">Gods he hopes Yennefer forgives him for going back on his promise to not do anything stupid. Not to mention how uncertain he is that Geralt will even bother coming into this room at all. Well, the best laid plans and all that.</p><p class="p1">No one is surprised by the sight of him with a pack on his back, his lute in it’s case in his hand, boots on. He’s carrying one of Dimmy’s nicer bags, half packed up with the pieces of her finery that he’s been wearing himself. The other half he’s filled with food and that’s that. It’s all he’s got. He’ll be more than able to make coin quickly with the song cycles he’s been developing the entire time he’s been here. He can buy the rest of what he’ll need then. His steps are light, his spirits are high, and he’s almost immediately flanked by Lambert.</p><p class="p1">They walk side by side in silence for some time, footsteps matching. When they pass by the Dining Hall Lambert glances inside but doesn’t miss a single step when Jaskier chooses to continue on. There’s food in his pack and a town at the base of the mountain that he’ll easily be able to reach by midday tomorrow. He’s excited to finally answering the call of the road, excited that he’ll be able to feel the open air, the soft earth, the world unfurling around him.</p><p class="p1">Excited to not have to see the look in Geralt’s eyes when his gentlest touch leaves him bruised.</p><p class="p1">“Would you like a horse? We have horses.” Jaskier glances over to Lambert, confused and taken aback.</p><p class="p1">“It wouldn’t be too much trouble?” Lambert, grasping onto this opportunity, shakes his head and begins to steer them towards a different exit that will dump them out closer to the stables. Jaskier follows, a little baffled.</p><p class="p1">“No, no trouble. We have plenty, well trained, for some of the new trainees. It’ll be more than fine. In fact I’m pretty sure I’ll get stabbed if I don’t insist you take one.” Lambert looks less nervous now that there’s a goal for this interaction. For the most part they’re left alone but people do look, others do see, it’s no secret why Lambert is leading him to the stables while he’s got a pack on his back. Jaskier can’t decide if he’ll truly be glad to have been able to slip out so easily, no fuss, no tears, no rending of shirts and beating of chests.</p><p class="p1">Lambert picks out a horse for him, a beautiful dappled grey, and then spends the next fifteen minutes making certain that Jaskier knows how to tack and saddle him. It’s sweet and Jaskier doesn’t take offense because it’s just Lambert making sure he’ll be okay on the path and why would he ever think Jaskier well trained with horses.</p><p class="p1">His name is Pegasus, and Jaskier has a split second where he genuinely wonders if the horse was bought, named, and trained for him specifically since the name and coloring are so perfect a fit for his sensibilities.</p><p class="p1">Lambert clears his throat, nodding. It’s the first time Jaskier’s seen him fidgeting. Jaskier watches him for a long moment, trying to decide if he’s likely to get bitten if he tries to initiate a hug right now. After a time Lambert seems to finally come to a decision in his mind and he reaches behind him to pull a knife off of his belt.</p><p class="p1">“Here.” Jaskier looks down at the dagger in Lambert’s hands, eyebrow raised.</p><p class="p1">“Are you serious?” Lambert unsheaths it just enough for him to see that the dagger is actually a different metal from the rest of it.</p><p class="p1">“It’s iron. I made it so you could carry it without discomfort.” Jaskier’s incredibly touched so he doesn’t argue any further, not willing to admit that he will definitely be tossing it in his bag and not touching it again. “Just in case you run into the fae.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, it’ll be good to be able to stab someone and cause an allergic reaction at the same time.” Jaskier means it as a fun joke but Lambert sneers.</p><p class="p1">“Jask, you’re only a fourth fae. It’s an allergic reaction for you but this dagger will feel like it’s on fire for a full fae. It’ll boil their insides.” Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he looks back down at the dagger in shock. “It’ll also do a pretty good job of stabbing anyone who happens not to be fae, too. Just so you know.” Jaskier smiles, a little uneasy. It’s all so very Lambert of him, isn’t it?</p><p class="p1">“Thank you darling.” Jaskier’s torn between feeling utterly horrified and deeply touched, but that’s just part and parcel of loving Lambert. He reaches out, holding his hands open, and Lambert sheaths it with a loud click before handing it over.</p><p class="p1">“Just, don’t fucking stab yourself.” Jaskier laughs and turns around to slip it inside a saddle bag, something well within reach of where he’ll be sitting on the saddle. He has every intention of hugging Lambert now that neither of them are holding a dagger but Lambert gets to him first, holding him tightly. Jaskier runs a hand through his short hair, scratching at his scalp lightly, and just holds him tightly for a long time.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p1">Geralt watches Ciri read the letter Jaskier left behind for her for the third time in a row. It’s crinkled from Ciri’s tight grip on the thick paper. He doesn’t know what it says, isn’t sure what Jaskier may have even wanted to say to her, and he tries to keep his attention focused on the fire and the crackle and pop and snap of it instead of her quietly mumbling fragmented sentences under her breath.</p><p class="p1">She’s got tears in her eyes. He’s worried that she’ll tear the letter to shreds and toss them into the fire in a fit of rage. He can smell the sweat, the tears, the chill rolling off of her body. This anger she’s feeling is different from her usual rage, it’s cold and quiet. It’s a rage that belongs more to Yen than himself.</p><p class="p1">He can almost smell the same crinkle of metal and electrified spark in the air that he’s smelled on Yen during the peak of her pure, barely restrained rage.</p><p class="p1">He supposes he can get Yen to come down and see if she can unburn the letter. He doesn’t know if she’ll be able to accomplish something like that, but it may be worth a shot. Something like probably wouldn’t be easy. Might not be worth it for a letter like that. He thinks it is, though, even if Ciri does decide it’s not. She might be happier to have it one day. He thinks he’d be happier to have a letter. Jaskier, it seems, didn’t think it was important to leave him with a letter. He’s trying not to be hurt about it.</p><p class="p1">Distracting himself from her restrained tears with silly thoughts like this is proving to not be as successful as he’d hoped. He wants to rage along with her. His mind is swirling with what he thinks might be the same thoughts hers is. He sits still as marble and stares at the fire and tries to hold himself together with her sitting next to him. She’s controlling herself very well and he’s proud of her, so he uses that now to help keep himself controlled. If she can prevent herself from a rage it stands to reason that he should be capable of it, too.</p><p class="p1">“He just left without a goodbye.” Geralt didn’t get a goodbye either. Not even a letter. Nothing. He left for his morning training and came back to an empty room. No bard anywhere.</p><p class="p1">“He’ll come back in the winter. He promised.” Geralt doesn’t believe it when he says it and he can tell that Ciri knows it. Geralt hasn’t believed Jaskier a single time he promised, no point in trying to believe it now, either. Only things that’s changed is he’s gone now. Ciri sniffs, quietly and carefully refolds the letter.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, he said that in the letter. That he hopes to return. What does that mean?He hopes to?” Geralt leans back into the couch and turns to look at her. Her cheeks are bright pink and her eyelashes are dotted with tears but she sounds more annoyed than anything else. She shakes her head, frowning, and huffs again. “He <em>hopes</em> to. A week ago he was <em>promising</em> to.”</p><p class="p1">“I wish I knew, Ciri.” It seems cruel to have involved Ciri in this lie at all. If he has no intention of returning then he should have at the very least made it clear to Ciri. Stringing her along is cruel.</p><p class="p1">He could chase after Jaskier, drag him back up this bloody mountain and force him to say goodbye to Ciri in the face. Lock him away in that stupid room of his that he hasn’t been inside of for the past few weeks. It probably doesn’t even smell of him anymore.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t realize ‘<em>soon</em>’ meant the next fucking day.” He doesn’t bother to correct her language, she’s Calanthe’s daughter as much as she is Pavetta’s. And his. And Yen’s. And the entirety of the Keep, too, honestly. No need to play pretend on that front now. She picks the letter back up, holding it more carefully this time, and proceeds to read it a fourth time. Ciri smiles as she reads it, a small smile, and he can smell her rage ebbing away. Geralt shakes his head and goes back to staring at the flames.</p><p class="p1">She’s just okay now. Twenty minutes and she cycled through sadness, devastation, rage, and now acceptance. Geralt feels a little lightheaded with the speed of her emotions. Was it a Ciri thing or a human thing?</p><p class="p1">He can’t help but feel a little bitter about the fact that she’s got a letter and he doesn’t.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p5">The rest of the year passes by without much of anything interesting happening. Geralt’s bed feels empty. Too large. His evenings feel twice as long as they used to. It takes him some time to grasp the extent of it, but he just feels lonely. Jaskier filled his evenings with laughter and music and conversation. Warmth. He sits closer to the fire and still feels cold.</p><p class="p5">Geralt resigns himself to long evening baths and hours spent wandering the halls himself now. There’s a sinking feeling inside him, an ever increasing feeling that he’s made a mistake. He picks back up his habit of reading before bed, but it takes him twice as long to work his way through any one book. His mind simply wanders, or zones out, or he reads the words and realizes several pages later that he hasn’t comprehended a single letter. It’s frustrating. Its infuriating.</p><p class="p5">He doesn’t think that finding Jaskier would be that difficult at all. His scent is probably still in the air.</p><p class="p5">He spends his time after the peace treaties staring into the fire and fantasizing about tracking Jaskier down. He imagines him happy to see him, bored and proud and glad for the excuse to come back to the Keep. He tries to see him out in the world, lost in the crowds of people, smiling and chatting and probably swiping several treats from the counters of stalls along his path. He can see Jaskier dancing and singing in town squares, lute case open and catching coins. Singing in taverns, inns, courts. Singing about witchers and their heroics and their scars they bare in the name of humanity’s survival.</p><p class="p5">As much as he hates himself for doing it he’s waiting for the winter. Biding his time for his brothers, and for Jaskier, to return to his Keep. Safe, warm, well fed, protected.</p><p class="p5">As winter creeps in ever closer he wonders if witchers will file in with stories of his music, of the effect of his songs, maybe even a sighting or two. He can see Ciri’s renewed excitement as the wind turns sharp, carrying along the crisp scent of winter’s chill. He wants to remind her that Jaskier may not return, to prepare her in case she’s disappointed. He doesn’t want to see her tears, her pain. He doesn’t know if he’ll still be able to love Jaskier when he sees the way he’ll break his daughter’s heart with his absence.</p><p class="p5">No letters have been sent. Not a single one. Not even for her birthday.</p><p class="p5">The sun spends less time in the sky, the wind turns sharp, the trees around them change color. Geralt spends his evenings worrying instead of dreaming now. He can see blood pouring out of Jaskier so vividly that he can taste it. He thinks of bandits overtaking him. Nobles taking offense at his flirtations.</p><p class="p5">He worries over the extra trouble his medallion may have brought him. People who might have wanted to capture him and interrogate him. The songs he travels with, songs of witchers with details that so few others would be able to know, would have tipped them off to his association. Of course they’d see the medallion, if he hadn’t seen Jaskier button up his own trousers several times with his own eyes then he’d worry that Jaskier didn’t know how buttons worked at all. The damn thing would be on display for anyone around to see it.</p><p class="p5">The peace treaties are finalized. Geralt heaves several sighs of relief, glad to finally be done with them. However, only a month later, he begins engaging in talks with the elves about offering his help in establishing their new Kingdom in Dol Blathanna. The other Kingdoms have agreed to reparations and it’s fallen to Geralt to ensure that they make good on that word. It’s a good distraction and the elves are much easier to spend time with.</p><p class="p5">When witchers begin arriving his simple worries become genuine fears. Ciri looks to the gates, bouncing with excitement, everytime word arrives of another rider is seen climbing the trail. She’s happy to see everyone but Geralt can see the way her smile dims when they’re close enough for her to see that it isn’t Jaskier.</p><p class="p5">“Why hasn’t he sent any letters?” She asks, leaning over the window sill, arms crossed and leant against the stone.</p><p class="p5">“It’s difficult for letters to reach us here. It’s possible that they’re still on their way.” Ciri huffs, rolling her eyes.</p><p class="p5">“They would have more than made it by now.” Geralt doesn’t know why he’d even bothered with such a lukewarm attempt at excusing Jaskier’s actions. He didn’t expect any letters to be sent but he’s still disappointed by their lack of arrival.</p><p class="p5">They continue to wait. The Keep fills up, more and more witchers arrive everyday and still Jaskier does not return. Some witchers bring back word of his songs. Snippets they heard, a lingering scent of him in a tavern, but none saw him. Only one of them bothered to keep a note of where they saw him, too, so there’s no hint of a pattern in his travels, either. Ciri listens to their stories with interest, but Geralt can see her excitement souring.</p><p class="p5">It is beginning to seem that Jaskier will not be returning to winter at Kaer Morhen this year. Heedless to all their sweet begging and so quickly forgetting all his sweet promises. </p><p class="p5">“He’ll come next year, cub.” He hears Yen whisper to her during dinner. The first snows have fallen, thin layers of white that will melt the second the sun peeks out from the clouds. Geralt wants to snipe at Yen, tell her not to fill Ciri with more hope, but he bites his tongue against the impulse. It would be incredibly stupid, but there is still a chance that Jaskier may be on his way.</p><p class="p5">He should have sent a witcher after him, to trail him, to keep an eye on him. It wouldn’t have been difficult work. Lambert, probably, would have enjoyed it.</p><p class="p5">“And when he does you may stab him just as much as you’d like.” Yen’s comment does little to ease any of their worries, but it brings a smile to Ciri’s face which is more than anyone has been able to accomplish in some time. Ciri’s disappointment is a palatable thing. Geralt knows the weight and shape of it, and every day is grows heavier.</p><p class="p5">“He’s probably gotten caught up in spreading his songs around the Continent. Swimming in coin and praise and attention, glittering in courts.” Triss’s smart new angle pulls Ciri into the fantasy of Jaskier’s nomadic life, and they spend the remainder of the evening postulating about what new trouble he’s entangled himself in and what new stories he’ll bring to their Keep come winter next year.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s evenings fill with worry and sleep becomes more fleeting than ever. He worries for Jaskier. He could ask Triss to scry for him. Just knowing where he was might do enough to soothe his nerves. He doesn’t, though, unwilling to admit to his worrying. Not yet. There’s still a chance for Jaskier to keep his promise. A chance for Jaskier to come striding in through their gates, smiling and laughing and mouth running a mile a minute to tell everyone about all the different trouble he got into on the Path. Trouble that he was more than capable of sliding away from, slick like water, unharmed and bouncing on his heels.</p><p class="p5">Geralt’s last little kernel of hope is snuffed out once the Keep is well and truly snowed in.</p><p class="p5">The Keep is half buried in the snow, quiet and warm and safe. The halls are full of witchers who lounge in the scant sunlight and talk loudly of their time on the path. Returning trainees tell big tales to the ones who have not ventured into the world yet. The Keep is full to the brim with his brothers, safe and warm and very well fed, and still Geralt feels that he’s walking empty halls and dwarfed by cavernous rooms.</p><p class="p5">Ciri is no better. She plays the clavichord in the evenings morosely, flip-flopping between touching the keys gently and too soft for there to be any sound at all or slamming the keys down with the weight of her body and erupting in shockingly loud notes. Geralt isn’t sure how to help her through this, or how to manage it, but taking it out on the clavichord is better than taking it out on something sentient. Still, in addition to her regular training schedule he has her added to one of the three different clearing groups that wake up three hours before dawn and clear out the courtyards to make room for training. She grumbles about it but the extra work is more than good for her. She’s as pent up and energetic as Lambert was when he was cub himself and twice as much of a menace.</p><p class="p5">Geralt tries to ease himself back into his old loneliness. Jaskier’s absence feels like a knife to his side. Jaskier showed him what it would feel like not to be so alone, how satisfying it is to spend his evenings with someone curled into his side, warm and filling the silence with chatter that he’s not expected to listen to. Jaskier made him aware of the part of himself that had wanted someone there with him beside him at night, filling the space of his bed. Knowing that he is lonely is probably the worst part of Jaskier’s absence. Now he knows. He knows he wants it, he knows how it felt to have it, and now he knows that he cannot have it again.</p><p class="p5">Geralt stops trying to pretend he isn’t worried.</p><p class="p5">He lays in bed and waits for time to pass. It would be easy to loose his sense of time underground like this. One of the reasons he’s always loved this part of the Keep is because of how muted everything is. He thinks that if Ciri weren’t here, in need of his attention and presence, then he’d be too tempted to do give into that old desire. The work of Warlording, after all these years, no longer fulfills him the way it did in the beginning. Their stupid, endless meetings are nearing their end and the goals he set out to achieve are within grasp. He is exhausted.</p><p class="p5">Once Ciri has a bowl of hot oatmeal in her belly he sends her off to join the clearing parties and then Geralt has to wait a few hours longer. He flips through his journal lazily, glancing at his old pages and seeing vey little of it.</p><p class="p5">Once the sun is risen he’ll go to Yen’s rooms and have her scry for him. He needs to know where Jaskier is. He needs to know that he can be found. He sees him bleeding, sees him gurgling and drowning in his own blood in his dreams. He never believed Jaskier’s more romantic promising, but he can’t help but feel that Jaskier would not lie to him. That he is an exception somehow to all the lying Jaskier’s done just to get into his own Keep.</p><p class="p5">Perhaps he’s been the biggest fool of all. Allowing a noble to wander his halls, to persuade his way into his bed, to snuff out his secrets.</p><p class="p5">Learning where he is probably won’t get him one step closer to understanding Jaskier’s intentions but at least he’ll know if he’s still fucking alive. Geralt scrubs at his face, smushing the flesh around, and yawns. Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s disturbed Yen’s sleep.</p><p class="p5">He walks slowly in an attempt to buy them all whatever extra amount of time that little effort will buy them. He doesn’t even have to knock before Yen’s opening the door for him with her majicks, inviting him in without bothering to stop doing whatever she’s already up to. He closes the door behind him with a soft click and finds her in front of the fire, with Triss, pouring out tea. Thankfully, not fucking lavender this time.</p><p class="p5">“Triss can’t find him.” Geralt clenches his jaw and sits down at the couch. There’s maps strewn across the table and Triss is concentrated on them, holding her chain and crystal aloft, already scrying for him. “I honestly expected you to come asking me about his whereabouts earlier.” Yen hands him a cup of tea and he takes it, thankful for the warmth of it in his hands. He doesn’t have to look at her to see the tightness around her eyes, the only sign of her worry she’ll allow herself.</p><p class="p5">“How long has she been looking?” Yen focuses on doctoring up her tea, honey, lemon, a dash of milk, all very particular and precise. She holds out a slice of lemon for him and he takes it wordlessly, dropping it into his own tea. Triss’s shoulders slump and she allows the chain to fall to the table.</p><p class="p5">“I’ve been looking since the seasons turned.”</p><p class="p5">“Hm.” Geralt didn’t know what to expect from this conversation but he certainly didn’t want this non answer. He turns his head to glare at Yen. “You told Ciri he’d be here next year.” She knew he wouldn’t be returning and led her on regardless. Yen meets his glare with one of her own, clearly resentful of his accusation. The air snaps with the electricity of her rage, sudden and sharp and bringing the hairs on his arms to stand.</p><p class="p5">“That was before we had to admit that he’d nowhere.” Geralt just continues to glare, waiting for her to explain herself. Yen doesn’t.</p><p class="p5">“Scrying is the simplest location method. It takes the least amount of energy and never settles on anything too specific. It’s the easiest to protect oneself from. We had to spend some time considering the possibility that he’d done something to purposefully hide himself.” Geralt sets his cup down carefully. He’s broken too many of Yen’s cups already.</p><p class="p5">“And you decided he wasn’t?” Yen hands Triss her tea, made up the way she likes, and Triss smiles.</p><p class="p5">“There’s simply too much evidence pointing to him not being a fucking spy.” Triss cuts Yen a sharp, amused glance and Yen frowns. Yen silently stands and goes to her desk nearby, pulling open a drawer and picking up an envelope.</p><p class="p5">“Stupid little shit promised he wouldn’t do anything stupid.” She sits back down, slapping the envelope in front of Geralt. Geralt’s seen her and Jaskier interacting, seen the slow way that Jaskier managed to even weasel his way into her good graces. Now, though, he can truly see how much she likes him. They were friends, even with her stint of recent disbelief in his character.</p><p class="p1">Geralt spends a long time just staring at the letter trying to work his way through his emotions. He can recognize Jaskier’s handwriting immediately after the hours he sent by Jaskier as he scribbled away into his journal or scratched notes onto Ciri’s sheet music for her. He’s honestly not sure what he feels. It’s all tangled together, a confused mess of things. Mostly it ends up feeling like just a numb confusion. Jaskier left a letter for Yennefer? He glances up at her but she’s kept her face unreadable.</p><p class="p1">“What is this, Yen?”</p><p class="p1">“Something he left for you. Just in case he did do something stupid after all.” She sneers down at the maps and shrugs. “It seems he did.” Geralt doesn’t know if he wants to read it. Whatever’s in that letter has Yen worried. Whatever stupid thing he did made him impossible for Triss to track.</p><p class="p1">Geralt pops the wax seal open. It sends a wave of dread through him.</p><p class="p1">Jaskier pressed one of his rings into the wax, but Geralt doesn’t look at it long enough to see which one. He remembers one of the last evenings they spent together, Jaskier talking about all of his rings. There were two that he wore simply because they were pretty but the other three came with interesting stories. Stories he still remembers. The memory of it clenches his heart, twists his gut. He flips the opening flap of the envelop back down and takes another look at the wax seal. It’s the same ring he pressed into Ciri’s envelope, his family’s crest. It’s surprising to him that Jaskier still carries the seal and uses it at all considering the clipped, icy tone he uses when he speaks of them. If he speaks of them at all.</p><p class="p1">“What did he do?” Geralt stares the the broken seal, the way the envelope looks thin but has a bulge at the bottom. It contains something more than a simple letter at least. Did he get a letter after all? But why entrust it to Yen?</p><p class="p1">“I worry that he decided to go to the fae himself. Alone. Despite promising to wait.” Anger. Frustration. He clenches his jaw and bites his tongue. Had he not made it more than clear that he intended to help Jaskier deal with this? Was there more he could have done to make it clear that he had every intention of walking into the thin spaces with him? He’d been avoiding the conversation because it was easier. Because it made him nervous and Jaskier himself seemed to want to avoid it just as much as he did.</p><p class="p1">He can see the mistake for what it was now.</p><p class="p1">He dumps the envelope over and a necklace falls to the table, clinking loudly in the quiet room. It has a thin chain, dainty and sparkling silver, and attached to it is a small coin. Geralt pokes at it in confusion and when he touches it he can feel a strange thumping. He picks it up gingerly, feeling the gentle beat of it, and brings it close to inspect it. For the most part it is nothing more than a coin, decorated with the regular things coins are decorated with. It’s completely nondescript.</p><p class="p1">Geralt holds the coin and tracks the familiar rhythm of it. He glances up to Yen with confused incredulity on his face. She sighs. Triss tucks away the maps as quietly as she can. The atmosphere is quickly very, very awkward.</p><p class="p1">“A heartbeat.” She provides. Geralt flips the coin around in his hands, feeling the heartbeat like the coin itself is alive.</p><p class="p1"><em>Jaskier’s</em> heartbeat.</p><p class="p1">Geralt slides the chain over his head without a second thought, tucking the coin behind his medallion. He can feel the gentle bump of Jaskier’s heartbeat pressed into his chest, already warm like it’s been pressed against human skin this whole time. It’s a deep comfort.</p><p class="p1">There’s no letter. Geralt tries not to resent it’s lack.</p><p class="p1">“Why would he have a coin majicked with his heartbeat?” He knows why. Yen knows he knows why, too. He can barely ask the question, his throat feels so tight. Yen rests her hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle and strong. None of them feel the need to voice the answer and Geralt drains the remainder of his tea. The second heartbeat thumping into his chest proves one thing, Jaskier’s still alive. Triss may not be able to find him, but he’s still alive.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be moving onto more innovative methods soon. Geralt, I need to warn you.” He closes his eyes and drops his head. He doesn’t need Triss to say this, but he can’t stop her from saying it, either. “If we can’t find him, and he’s alive, he’s with the fae.”</p><p class="p1">Geralt slams his fists on the table, jostling the tea cups, sloshing around the contents of them. Neither of the women react to his dramatics, thankfully.</p><p class="p1">His mind is swirling, his emotions have surged up uncontrollably, he thinks he might be snarling. Yen tuts and pours more tea for him while Triss sops up what he’s spilled. Their quiet, casual, easy return to their dynamic, ignoring his little outburst, helps to ease him. That and Jaskier’s heartbeat and the warmth of the tea and the added quiet to the world around them from the snow.</p><p class="p1">Geralt sits back down into the couch and tries to find his own calm.</p><p class="p1">“Why the fuck would he go alone?”</p><p class="p1">“He came to me and asked me some questions about the fae, what he should expect when he has to come face to face with them. He didn’t look like he appreciated my answers very much.” Geralt turns to glower at her, but she is, as ever, unfazed by his anger.</p><p class="p1">“What did he ask you?” He tries to keep his tone controlled but Yen is being purposefully obtuse in her answers. Triss rubs a hand along her back and Yen softens a little at the edges.</p><p class="p1">“How he should act, how much power he would have in their realms. There are stories of fae, but he wanted to know exactly how much of it was truth or not. Things like that, really.” Geralt tries not to fall into the trap of blaming this on Yen. He needs to be glad that she answered his questions because, knowing fucking Jaskier, he would have done this regardless. Still, regardless, he’s upset. He doesn’t know what to do, but he burns with the need to do fucking something. Anything.</p><p class="p1">“I need to find him.” Yen rolls her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“And just how do you plan on doing that, Geralt?” Geralt grinds his teeth, glaring at the wood of the table.</p><p class="p1">“Do you expect me to just sit around and wait for him to walk back into my fucking Keep?” Yen doesn’t look at him like he’s something to be pitied. She hates pity, she’d claw his eyes out if he ever looked at her like that, but still. Regardless. He feels very pitied.</p><p class="p1">“Two men lost to the fae is harder to track than just one, Geralt.” Triss says.</p><p class="p1">“The peace talks are still ongoing, as well. We can’t have you running out of them now, when we’re finally reaching the end of them.” Yen says. Two good points. It does little to settle the wolf inside him, pacing back and forth angrily, restlessly, anxious.</p><p class="p1">“We can track one of them down, ask them where he is, ask them to take us to him.”</p><p class="p1">“He’s their kin Geralt.” Yen says like it’s a good enough answer. Thankfully Triss jumps in the fill in the blanks Yen leaves behind. </p><p class="p1">“They have claim over him. Even if you did have claim over him, they’d hide him away from you in order to keep him. Not to mention how disparate their courts are. Fae from one court won’t know who comes and goes in another. We’d have to track down a fae from the forest he disappeared in and we have no way of knowing which one he lost himself in.” Geralt feels the fight leave him then. He drops his head to the back of the couch and slumps into the soft velvet.</p><p class="p1">“You’re telling me he’s gone.”</p><p class="p1">“We are still trying to find him.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re trying to tell me you might not.” He hears Yen sigh. The silence that stretches between them feels heavy, like the air in the room is suddenly thickening, gaining mass, weighing on his shoulders. A physical disappointment, growing heavier and heavier.</p><p class="p1">He knew Jaskier would break his heart sooner or later, but now he’ll have to spend the remainder of his life wondering if it was ever real at all. He thinks that might be the worst outcome of all of this. At least before he might have known.</p><p class="p1">“It’s possible, yes.” And Geralt will have to carry this coin around his neck, feel his heartbeat, and wait for it to stop.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>two years lost</em>
</p><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p1">Geralt isn’t sure what to tell Ciri. Or how to tell her. Or if he should at all.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She doesn’t ask about him. She continues to play her clavichord, but she doesn’t play any of the music he left for her. She doesn’t glare at Geralt, or spit out bitter words, or blames him, but he feels it all the same. She waits by the window when it’s announced that someone is approaching but it’s clear that she’s no longer expecting Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">Hopefully he can avoid this entire conversation.</p><p class="p1">“Is it worse to tell her now? She doesn’t wait for him anymore.” He’s in Yen’s office. They meet weekly now, with Triss, to discuss their options, what they already know. They’ve made very little ground in the year they’ve known he’s been missing.</p><p class="p1">“You should have told her earlier.” Triss says, plopping back into her chair. They’re drinking, because this is depressing and frustrating and a full year of staring at the same, very little information they have has really begun to take it’s toll.</p><p class="p1">“Telling her will just give her hope. That hope could kill her.” Yen says. Geralt sighs into his cup miserably. He wishes he could just ask Ciri, see what she would want without giving it all away. He doesn’t want to get her hopes up, but letting her continue on thinking Jaskier just abandoned her seems just as horrible. He has to admit that he agrees with Yen on this, but he worries that might be because of how much he’d like to not have that conversation at all.</p><p class="p1">Geralt still wears the coin and the beat of it against his own chest, far too fast and so familiar he only notices it when he thinks about it, keeps his heart bleeding with hope. It feels worse than any arrow he’s had to dig out of his flesh. He doesn’t want to saddle Ciri with that same pain. He worries she may already be and has just gotten much, much better at hiding it.</p><p class="p1">“Any luck finding the viscount he’s related to?” He asks it to move the conversation away from Ciri. Thinking about the decision he’s been avoiding to make regarding her just makes him feel even more guilty. Yen scowls.</p><p class="p1">“Do you have any idea how many viscounts there are in the Continent? You couldn’t even remember where he was born?” Geralt frowns and tosses back the remainder of his cup so he can refill it. He doesn’t know why this is his fault specifically, Jaskier never spoke about where he came from. He remembers that he’s a viscount, but. Jaskier was tight lipped about his family.</p><p class="p1">“You were <em>in his brain </em>rifling through his <em>memories</em> and you doesn’t know, either.” Yen shrugs, unaffected and gulping down her wine.</p><p class="p1">“I was busy looking for specific things.”</p><p class="p1">“And Oxenfurt was useless?” Triss scowls now, focusing on her own wine for a long moment.</p><p class="p1">“Fuckers.” Is all she feels the need to say about that so Geralt just sighs, resigned to their fate. Who knew it would be so impossible to track down one man’s family? Especially in this day and age where nobility listed their every relation. Comparing Jaskier’s family crest to the records would be the easiest way to find him, but it’s become painfully obvious that there are far, far too many family crests to have to slog through. If they can even manage to get their hands on the fucking books in the first place.</p><p class="p1">Geralt had so little time with him, and even less so when he finally stopped trying to maintain his distance. It only makes it hurt all the more, that his mind is swirling with so many questions, burning with a desire to just know him, just talk to him, to have one more chance to actually listen to all the nonsense that falls out of his mouth. </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>three years lost</em>
</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p5">“The second he appears in our realm I’ll know it.” The three of them are standing in Yen’s office once again, staring at a map. These meetings have become monthly.</p><p class="p5">Ciri plays his music again.</p><p class="p5">“I have charms set in place that will capture his location and mark it on the map, no matter how quickly he appears and disappears. Even a second in our realm and we’ll know it.” Yen and Triss are both looking at the map, Yen looks impressed and Triss looks proud, but Geralt can’t see anything. He assumes they must be able to see the charm she’s talking about somehow. His medallion is thrumming against his chest so he knows hat whatever they’re looking at, it’s certainly powerful. He wonders if this means he shouldn’t touch it? Probably safer to just assume he shouldn’t.</p><p class="p1">It’s really quite brilliant. If Jaskier manages to escape then they’ll know it immediately. Even if he’s recaptured within seconds. It’ll be more information then they have right now.</p><p class="p1">“We also know that despite attending Oxenfurt and spending most of his time there, wherever he was once a viscount it wasn’t in Redania.” Triss says it with her steadfastly upbeat, optimistic tone. Geralt’s shoulders drop. He’s not sure what they’ll do. Not sure what they can do anymore.</p><p class="p1">“And it seems that his friend the Countess has retired and cut all ties with society. Tracking her down has proven to be quite difficult.” Yen doesn’t bother with the pretense of optimism. “Whatever he did when he abdicated his seat, it was enough to have him stricken from the books entirely. It might have been because of his fae blood presented more obviously if Geralt’s to be believed when he says Jaskier was the only child with blue eyes.” Geralt rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother raising to the bait. He’s earned that, to be honest. If he’d just remembered one more piece of information then they’d have been able to track down Jaskier’s mother, and therefore Jaskier, much earlier.</p><p class="p1">“They didn’t even record him abdicating his seat. Only four viscounts abdicated that year in the entirety of the Continent. None of them were him.” Geralt doesn’t ask them how they got their hands on those books or why it took almost two years to do it. It doesn’t matter to him how they did it, just that they did.</p><p class="p1">The fact that all that work provided them with nothing hurts all the more.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p5">Ciri misses a note in the song and responds by slamming her hands into the keys angrily. Geralt turns to look at her slowly, uninterested in chastising her but aware that she’s clearly looking for some type of attention. She glowers at the sheet music and lets the tones fade away.</p><p class="p5">“I think it’s your fault he won’t come back.” She turns around in her chair and glares at him fully, unabashedly.</p><p class="p5">None of the witchers claim to see him anymore. He music is still played, but only rarely, and only the more rowdy ones that people still remember. She doesn’t beg for tales anymore. The other witchers has begun to get nervous about him but they don’t ask questions.</p><p class="p5">“You’re his husband, and you made him feel like he wasn’t wanted around here.” Geralt sighs, and tosses another log into the fire. She’s been boiling with rage for a long time now, he’s honestly surprised that it’s taken this long for her to start throwing stones at him.</p><p class="p5">“Ciri, come sit with me.” She hesitates and he lets her. He’s been selfish, and cruel, to put this conversation off this long. He wonders how Yen will feel about him telling her any of this.</p><p class="p5">She doesn’t move from her bench but she does cross her arms and sit back against the keys. He looks over to her smirking despite himself. He shouldn’t be amused by this he doesn’t think, it’s not how Vesemir would have reacted when he was a cub, but he’s glad that she doesn’t feel scared to deny his requests. It’s a sigh of Yen’s influence on her and he’s glad for it.</p><p class="p5">“Okay. We’re looking for him, and we’re working under the assumption that he’s been stolen by the fae.” Ciri blinks at him for a moment, and then she looks confused.</p><p class="p5">“Is that all you were gonna tell me?” Geralt frowns.</p><p class="p5">“Who told you first?”</p><p class="p5">“Aunt Yen.” Geralt shakes his head and pokes at the logs to distract himself. Of course she’s already told her what’s going on. He should have known.</p><p class="p5">“I miss him, too, Ciri.” Is all he can think to say. He can’t bring himself to condemn her for her opinion. He agrees with her, honestly. Perhaps if he’d been kinder to Jaskier, more trusting, more willing to believe him when he said things like ‘love’ and ‘darling’ and ‘beautiful’ then he would have waited for Geralt or someone, anyone, else to accompany him. Or just to leave a note, a clue, anything that would tip them off to where he went. Ciri sinks down from her bench and curls into his side. She doesn't apologize for what she's said and he doesn't ask her to. He can smell her silent tears and he doesn't comment on that either.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>four years lost</em>
</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p5">Geralt, by now, has settled into his waiting.</p><p class="p5">He’s finally able to sink into his station comfortably. He hasn’t spoken to a King or Queen from another Kingdom outside of written correspondence in almost a year. Ciri is seventeen now. In three years she will set out on the Path. It was a rather long and difficult conversation to have.</p><p class="p5">When they made the decision to stop mutating the trainees, they then had to spend a few years tweaking and experimenting with their potions. Ciri will be fine on the Path. She’s well trained, well prepared, and in mastery of her majicks.</p><p class="p5">It’s still utterly terrifying.</p><p class="p5">She’s going to be amazing.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>five years lost</em>
</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p5">He holds the coin in his hand when he can smell the first snow on the air. The gentle beat of Jaskier’s heart is the last hope he has to find him. That hope leaves him stuck. He can’t move on, he can’t imagine allowing anyone else in his bed. He wants. And he waits.</p><p class="p5">Their meetings have become informal. Triss will stop by during lunch with a note. Yen will lean over and whisper a thought during dinner. It’s a lot of nothing but he is glad they’re still looking. Still trying.</p><p class="p5">When Geralt’s feeling especially lonely he’ll stare at the enchanted map. He still hasn’t touched it, but he feels the majick pouring off of it and holds the coin in his enclosed palm, and waits.</p><p class="p5">He walks by his room sometimes. He considers going inside. He never does, though. It won’t smell like him and he doesn’t know how messy he left it behind. He thinks opening the door and seeing a room that looks like Jaskier’s only just stepped out for a second wouldn’t do him any good.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>six years lost</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Dimmy’s parents never once ask after her. They don’t come to visit and her mother never sends a response to that letter.</p><p class="p1">When they began to search for Jaskier they also began to search for her, but she’s proven just as elusive. She won’t have run away to any court, she won’t have kept any of her old connections or friendships.</p><p class="p1">They have even less information on her and where she may have run off to then they do Jaskier. Still, it’s something.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>seven years lost</em>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p1">Geralt has to remind himself that there’s no point in charging into the thin spaces. He won’t be able to find Jaskier like that, will only lose himself to the world. He needs to stay here, for his people, for Ciri, for Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">He paces his halls and attends his meetings and does a very good job of not scratching at the walls.</p><p class="p1">He takes a week off every month to return to the Path. A vacation. Something Jaskier suggested to him once, and it’s been a brilliant idea thus far. More soothing to the wolf inside of him than anything else has ever been. Sleeping under the stars, smelling the smoke and ash of the fire he cooked his dinner over, feeling the cool dirt under his ass. He should have been taken vacations from the very beginning. If he ever meets Jaskier again he’ll have to thank him.</p><p class="p1">He holds the coin of Jaskier’s heart beat and tracks the stars and falls asleep with the memories of Vesemir pointing them out and telling him their stories.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>eight years lost</em>
</p><p class="p7"> </p><p class="p1">At twenty years old Ciri leaves for the Path. Geralt spends a month hidden away in his rooms. He feels bereft. Truly alone in a way he hasn’t been in a very, very long time. There are pieces of him, scattered to the world, lost from him forever. He waits for winter, and the hope that when Ciri appears on the path home, she will be accompanied by Jaskier.</p><p class="p1">She never is. He is glad to see her all the same.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>nine years lost</em>
</p><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p5">Geralt still takes his breakfast alone in his rooms. He’s too used to it to feel the desire to take his breakfast in the Dining Hall and be surrounded by all the sound and chatter and smells of others.</p><p class="p5">One day Vesemir strides in. They stare at each other for a long moment. Geralt’s shocked, frankly. He hasn’t seen Vesemir outside of training and meetings in years now. Ciri no longer needed him to accompany her through the halls in a long time.</p><p class="p5">“May I join you?” He asks. Geralt straightens his posture and nods, pushing out a chair for him with his foot. There’s enough food for them to share. They sit in silence, eating quietly, for a long time. It’s awkward, and uncomfortable, in a way that it never had been between them before. Geralt doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what spurred this on, and so he keeps his mouth shut. He trusts Vesemir to know him well enough to understand that it’s not something he does to offend him.</p><p class="p5">“My boy.” Geralt’s eyes snap up to Vesemir, surprised. It’s been a long time since he’s called him that. Vesemir heaves a heavy sigh, dropping his hands to the table and meeting his gaze confidently.</p><p class="p5">“I don’t understand why you ever decided to break our code and involve yourself in politics. I still don’t understand why you ever decided that the trainees will no longer be mutated. For many years it felt like you were demanding the end of our people, and our culture.” Geralt tries to control his glare, mouth clamped shut to prevent himself from being drawn back into this ancient argument. “But.” Vesemir’s gaze softens, and he nearly smiles, too.</p><p class="p5">“But, I see witchers well fed, well trained, safe. I don’t agree with your choices but I am proud to see that you looked at the world and found a new place for us to inhabit.” Geralt feels a weight he’s been carrying for so long he’d made peace with it’s presence on his shoulders dissipate. It’s forgiveness he never expected to be given, never expected he’d earn, and he feels like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.</p><p class="p5">“Vesemir. Thank you.” Vesemir nods again, and that’s that. They return to their meal and their silence.</p><p class="p5">It becomes a habit after that. It’s nice.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>ten years lost</em>
</p><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p5">The coin beats. He waits.</p><p class="p6"> </p><p class="p3">__________________________</p><p class="p3">
  <em>eleven, twelve, thirteen fucking years lost</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You didn’t go into his fucking room <em>once</em> since he’s been gone?” Triss is fuming, Geralt can practically smell the fury on her skin. He’s in the process of turning around in his seat to look at her but she’s suddenly already standing beside him and smacking a book down onto Yen’s desk.</p><p class="p1">“Should I have?” He can smell the metallic ozone scent of her majicks being barely restrained. He keeps his mouth shut for now because it was always the right choice with Yen in the past.</p><p class="p1">“What’s this?” Yen asks for him, pulling the book closer to herself. “A journal?” Triss is glaring at Geralt and he’s avoiding it, opting instead to focus on the journal as well.</p><p class="p1">When she opens the book the scent of dandelions slams him in face. Dandelions. In a journal. One that looks like one of his own, the journal type he’d always preferred to carry at least. It tickles a memory in his mind, something distant. He glances between the women, confused.</p><p class="p1">“One of yours.” Yen says, flipping the pages idly. There’s a memory at the tip of his tongue, something he should really remember just it’s just out of his grasp.</p><p class="p1">Dandelions.</p><p class="p1">“Why did Jaskier have one of my journals in his room?” He glances over to Triss who only continues to glower at him. Yen holds the book out for him and he takes it. He used to stuff all kinds of things his journals, notices, a pretty flower or two, a letter once, a bit of fabric. Just, stuff really. Nothing too important or necessary at all. Because of this the journal bulges in a few areas already but when he flips through the pages it naturally falls opens to a specific section.</p><p class="p1">A letter and a chain of dandelions.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve got a fae’s<em> favor</em>?” Yen’s voice is cold as ice, hard as steel. Geralt’s spine snaps straight and he’s suddenly faced with the flavor of Yen’s barely restrained rage, too. He can smell it in the air, along with the sweet scent of the dandelions and their own, distinct scent of majick. It smells bright, like sunlight, and fresh, like the braided chains were picked just this afternoon.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck.” He’d forgotten this entirely. It was one strange afternoon, buried under years and years of long afternoons on the Path. Then pushed back even further to the back of his mind under all the weight and information he needed in order to become a successful Warlord and a good King.</p><p class="p1">“In my defense-” He doesn’t have a chance to explain himself, Triss holds up her hand to stop him(without the use of majicks) and he does.</p><p class="p1">“Read the letter, Geralt. You don’t need to defend yourself.”</p><p class="p1">“That chain could have found him thirteen years earlier.” Yen says and it makes Geralt flinch. He tries not to take that personally. There’s almost a hundred and fifty years worth of information in his mind, how can he possibly be expected to keep track of all of it? It’s part of the reason why he bothers keeping these journals in the first place.</p><p class="p1">“We’re focusing on being thankful we found it now instead of another ten years down the road.” Triss tells Yen with a hint of admonishment to her tone. Yen looks as convinced by that argument as Geralt is but they both keep their mouths shut. The coin feels heavy on his chest, the second beat loud in his ears and string in his chest. Geralt sets the journal down on the desk and picks up the letter. He watches Yen carefully pull the journal back towards herself, looking almost nervous to touch the chain, hand floating over it.</p><p class="p1">“I was given that chain near Kerack.” He says it to the letter, doesn’t say it to anyone in particular. The wax of the seal was pressed with the same ring that his previous one was. He picks at the seal idly, hesitantly.</p><p class="p1">“Your recollection of that afternoon is barely three sentences.” Yen still sounds mad but the scent of their combined majicks has slowly begun to ebb away at least.</p><p class="p1">“It didn’t seem to warrant more at the time.” Now that he’s reminded of the memory he can find it easily enough. He remembers it well, the strange shadows, the strange riddle, finding Roach covered in the chains. He’d only bothered to a small section of it. It didn’t matter how much of the chain that he had as long as he has a piece of it at all.</p><p class="p1">He finally manages to pop the seal of the envelope and now he’s faced with needing to pull the paper of the letter from it. These are the last words Jaskier left him with. The letter he’d intended for Geralt to find all those years ago. All that time he’d spent bitterly looking at Ciri’s letter and wondering why he wasn’t left one for himself.</p><p class="p1">Triss hops up onto the desk and leans over to peer down at the journal beside Yen. Their interest in the dandelion chain looks like little more than a thin excuse to allow him some privacy and he’s thankful for it. It makes sliding the paper from the envelope much easier to do.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Dearest Darling, </em>
</p><p class="p5">
  <em>Brute. Bastard. Oaf. Stupid, silly, beautiful, heart breaking, holder of my heart. I fell into your arms and sighed with relief. Even when your touch left bruises, even when your lips felt like fire on my skin, even when the brush of her fingers on my cheek pained me like a million nails, it was a relief. </em>
</p><p class="p5">
  <em>Loving you was so easy. I kissed your mouth and I loved you. I watched you write letters and I loved you. I saw your smile and I loved you. I saw your snarl, your gnashing teeth, your quiet fear. And I loved you. </em>
</p><p class="p5"><em>Loving you was easy when I was the </em>only <em>one loving you. How could you do this? How could you love me, too? I wanted your love, I ached for it, but I never once asked for it. Asking a man to love someone who will never be able to trust his own heart, controlled by a force outside of himself? You deserve a better man. A love you can trust. </em></p><p class="p5">
  <em>I want to love you Geralt. I want to love you with my eyes wide open, hands outstretched, on purpose. You deserve a man who can love you without doubt or worry. </em>
</p><p class="p5">
  <em>I want to love you, darling, the way you deserve. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Always Yours,</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Julek</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Geralt folds up the letter very carefully, tucks it into the envelope, and stands up. The two women look up at him, silent, waiting. He can’t bring himself to meet their gaze, his throat tight, his heart racing in a poor attempt to meet Jaskier’s natural pace. He can’t decide if he wants to weep or kill something.</p><p class="p1"><em>Dandelion</em>.</p><p class="p1">The strings of fate have had hm ensnared for decades.</p><p class="p1">“He’s gone to fucking Brokolin. I’m leaving in the morning.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'll be aiming for an update once a week, usually thursdays<br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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